I REFUSE TO EDIT THIS

CW : Suicide, Sexual Violence, Addiction

How do I translate Amy too high to know she’s getting pimped out by her rapist into words?

She owned them. Owns them.

She sang them on the drive to her house in the van & then she went inside & never saw her downtown again.

How do I translate a woman on sunset blvd, la, wrapped in filthy blankets screaming at what only she can see?

How do I translate that techie tweet talking on how filthy San Francisco homeless are?

How do I translate mental health programs kicking people out w. just enough meds for the greyhound to arrive wherever they’ve been prescribed to be told they have to move on, illegal to lie down, move on, can’t sleep in your car, move on, move on, move on—

Tickets given to heads who can’t pay accumulate.

Jail time looms.

Move on. Move. Come on. Get going.

Fuck outta here! Cuffs click blood

to the surface. OD. Wake up. Bills to pay.

Pay to bill. Another suicide attempt blamed

on someone not being strong enough. Again,

an addict’s actions villainize emotional interiors

that mirror ours. How about the time

I found a backpack of dope, meth, a pipe,

tried to smoke. Didn’t bubble. Didn’t trust. Took

the iPhone & ditched the pipe. Traded the SE

for two dubs. That was last week.

Around when Critter killed herself.

That hurt me. I blame her. Them. Blake.

All. Then. Everyone. Here. When

do I translate Juan’s experiences picking tobacco in Georgia, tomatoes in North Carolina, Indiana, back to Tucson & broken ankle & crutches stolen & in a wheelchair, plastic bags of clothes strapped to the handles, sleeping, oxi stolen from his socks while on a nod, & he’s telling the stories, rolling a cigarette after pissing in the middle of the streets bc bushes are hard to access & I watched for 5-0 & I’m writing this now & I’m asking you to not care whether or not the stories anyone tells are true bc they come from a source of pain that needs to be told to survive generations gestating human worth with what you can afford, & mothafuckers

these stories don’t need me to tell it.

They need us to listen.

How do you pimp pain?

The iPhone didn’t work. Didn’t sell.

I did edit this a lil bit.

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