A Traitor of the Better Kind

by Jules Archer

Justification is a chant tattooed

on the inside of my wrist.

The pretty things you say to me when

I will not swallow. Go ahead, boy,

pout like a fool. The braids you put me in will

cut and tear down my nastiness.


Give me,

give me a side of stale satisfaction for I

will be good and get gold, justifying in weathered

 and knee-scuffed jeans the lollipop-style I

suck and shear.


The crazy girl is thinking again,

you say. Spouting treacle and chaining her

wrists. But stale limelight is unwanted.

 I have my head on a pillow when you leave

and I sigh my loudest.