They broadcast me, the movie, the museum tour—
read my diary, stream my recorded phone sex
to my mom in the court pew, project me on the
wall in just pigtails, publish my implant scars.
Life changed when I dyed my hair, killed, answered
questions, got jailed. I’m bone pale, untouched.
Hell rushes in closer. Boredom around bed poles
singes the linens, wakes me—it’s making me old.
It hurts to believe in fate, that I was destined to
endure his foolish choices. Only God’s voice I hear.
But dude was careless with my heart, airing my crazy
even in death, when I just wanted him to be mine.