I thought a misery should be my muse
Naked and honest and filled with pain
Bastions of despair fed bone inkwells

I profited words off of her oils
Ejaculated stories, masochistic highs
Opiate’s bliss extracted from poppy’s pain

Mumbled to this spirit I was her
She merely turned her head and sang:
“No, but you belong to me now.”

Mason Betty, “Paragraph 17.” from Sallos