Poets write about about beauty,
they write about flaws and eccentricities,
and sunlight filtering through golden hair.
It’s ridiculous; it’s laughable -
what is beauty in the modern age?
When I went to the Louvre there was an entire room -
an entire room! -
full of newspaper covered in ink.
It was art and people stood too closely to it,
‘ooh’d’ and ‘ahh’d’ because they thought they were supposed to.
I don’t think I want to be something beautiful,
something comparable to newspaper clippings
dip-dyed in black ink, looking like the leftovers
of some toddler’s craft.
I want to be loved, I want to be fierce;
I want fire in my veins and ash on my lips,
but I don’t want to be poetry.