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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required 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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