Death Is In This Place
Death is in this place.
Death is somewhere
in a see-through
Ziplock bag;
it has no warning labels,
no FDC regulation,
and all the Nutritional Facts
read “fuck you, fuck you,
fuck you.”
Death’s buddies
are stylish and outgoing
and they are calling you
a loser.
Death’s pupils are dilated.
Death is dressed in nylon,
sheathed in cotton.
Death is putting out tonight
and putting her hands on chests.
Death is asking you if you’d rather
be sad than stupid but not asking you to prove it.
Poetree by my boy Jonah Ort
