The
social justice warrior in four seasons
A tanka cycle
Spring
blossoms. I write
on bare
skin in our combined
sexual
juices
a
fawning review of your
terrible
video game.
Summer
winds blow favours
from
friends. Undeserved status
wealth
and influence.
Your
money buys the ink for
my pen
that sings your praises.
Autumn
rot. The body
that we
pronounced dead rises.
I, a
megaphone,
cannot
drown its words or still
the
voice of my enemy.
Winter
snows. Our febrile
heat
cracks the ice underfoot.
A cold
spider web
showing
through starved foundations
slowly
pulls itself apart.
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