“The bitch in the photograph wears my face. I cut off my nose, her nose collapses. Chop down my hair & hers shrieks from the sink. How many poems do I have to write ‘til she gets dead, how many live-wire syllables? I drive a fork into her heart & she comes back a quart of blood-hyped milk. Some girls…”Tagged: Poetry, I Hate Myself, BPD