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Poem
I. The Hour of Approach

The poem I was writing refused to end—  
it kept writing me.  
Blood didn't ink these lines—  
the ink bled me.  
Each stanza a hidden-hematoma  
across the white of nothingness.

Somewhere, midnight faltered,  
and I was no longer alone.

II. Visitation: Sylvia Plath

Sivvy came barefoot, 
bees orbiting her temples,  
the sound of crockery breaking 
behind her smile.  
“I took a deep breath,” she said, 
“but the brag’s gone.
Now the heart mutters through marzipan nightmares.”  
Her eyes were bell jars, thick with steam.  
In one hand, a teacup cradled  
six dead stingers.

I tried to look away—  
she pressed them against my tongue  
and said, 

“Be still. Taste legacy.”
“Dying is an art” she murmured 
“I perform it exceptionally well.”

III. Visitation: Anne Sexton

Anne stepped out of a cindercloud Cadillac,  
pearls tangled in her wrists like regret.  
A Marlboro’s red tip blinked like an ambulance  
in her funeral smile.  
“They loved me best dead,”  
she laughed, “so I stayed that way.”

She pulled a black lipstick from her purse,  
scrawled ‘Confession is possession’  
across my ribs.

“Be naked, darling. 
Be lyric.  
But never free.”

Then she fed me  
a moth that tasted like  
my mother’s voice.

"I've sealed my confessions," she ejaculated
"in the hollow bones of winter."

IV. Visitation: Ernest Hemingway

Papa brought a marlin’s glass eye in a leather pouch 
and laid it beside his flask.  
His stare was a thunderhead  
over still waters
his silence heavier than all his words.

“You want the end?  
Make it clean. No adjectives.
Truth is a knife, sharp pressed against your back."

He unzipped my chest with  
a look.

Inside:  
a typewriter with a trigger
each key marked with a country he had fled.

"You stand at the edge for so long, you forget 
where the cliff begins and where it ends."

V. Descent

They didn’t come to comfort.  
They came to feed.

Each verse I bled,  
they devoured.  
Each metaphor  
unraveled in their teeth.

I was not a poet.  
I was a feast   a filleted 
tortured    artist

VI. The Coming of Poe

Edgar entered like a final stanza—  
slow, inevitable,  
wearing a raven-shaped metronome  
and mirror-black gloves.

His eyes strapped thunder  
to shadow.

“I watched your pen become a spade,”  
he chortled.
“And every poem you wrote,  
a shallower grave.”

He held out a lantern made of  
scraps of all their suicide notes.  
It was perfumed with genius,  
with torment,  
with rot,
the sweet decay of immortality

VII. Collapse (Meta-Erosion)

And then—

        the

poem
    fractured—
          no
              longer lines
    just
                hemorrhage

            (syllables tearing
     like

     skin)

I tried to scream  
                     but  
                           ink

             filled  
                    my  
                          lungs—

        the page folded  
        in on itself  

like a dying  
                     star

VIII. The Finality

Edgar bent close.  
His voice was the ticking  
of a clock without hands.

“You thought you summoned us,”  
he chuckled.  
“But we summoned you.”

He smirked.  
The ink on my skin began to move.  
It formed one word:  

                   YOURS

IX. Curse

And if you read this far—  
don’t lie to yourself.  
You’re not safe.  
You’ve tasted it…..the
tyranny    inner critic 
        perfectionism   

You’re already  
writing  
that  
next  
line.

The poem is over.  
But you are not.
.
.
.
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