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The day a poet didn’t die-2: The witness

She’s at it again.
Wasting my ink
staging yet another death.

I draft her crimson melodramas
with third-hand metaphors
as she sips on ‘hope’ like tonic 
laced with rust
and wears ‘moor’ like thrift-store perfume.
I thread her June into 
forced sonnets (poor things),
before her gin drowned the meter
in proofed regret.

Even a pen gets impatient.

Sometimes she pauses,
as though it might save her—
I rooted for her to mature
but talent won’t bloom from 
immature theatrics.

Still, I ink her curtain call—
the curse of being a vessel.

Copyright © Jasmine Tsai

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