How many biography writers do you applaud
when discussing literature?
Let me guess —
none.
And you shouldn’t either.
Because what is someone’s non-fiction lifetime
is their fiction sold in paperbacks.
Do you celebrate the writer,
or the person who happens
to be the subject and the content
of the book?
Then why this blinding hypocrisy
when a poet tells tales
of lives lost in translation
like they were theirs —
you’re so awestruck,
you can’t move a bone
to even question yourself?
Why celebrate someone
selling someone else’s life
as their capitalist fiction,
spread across words so moving
you’d almost forget
it’s fiction?
Don’t mistake their fiction for their truth.
It just tells me
how gullible you all are —
fucking knapsacks
stuffed with borrowed grief,
worshipping storytellers
who never paid rent
to the stories they stole.
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