the poet's middle finger

Hi my name is Albius Tibullus and no record of my praenomen is extant (that’s how I got my name) and I have hair with purple streaks and red tips that reaches my mid-back and icy blue eyes like limpid tears and a lot of people tell me I look like Callimachus (AN: if u don’t know who he is get da hell out of here!). I’m not related to Cornelius Gallus but I wish I was because he’s a major fucking hottie. I’m a vampire but my teeth are straight and white. I have pale white skin. I’m also a poet, and I go to a place called the circle of Messalla where I write angsty poetry (I’m twenty-five). I’m an elegist (in case you couldn’t tell) and I wear mostly black. I love Propertius and I get all of my ideas from him. For example today I was writing an elegiac poem about being locked outside my mistress’ door and reveling in my poverty and crying and imagining the wonderful life I would never have. I was walking in Rome. It was snowing and raining so there was no sun, which I was very happy about. A lot of epic poets stared at me. I put up my middle finger at them.

My mouth is a shotgun, both barrels loaded.
My heart is a hopeless mess, holy, and full of prayer.
My finger is an itchy trigger pointed at you, in praise of your perfection.
You are pulling me apart, and I am powerless.

((The wolf sharpens her teeth on my bones, licks my blood from her lips and howls at the moon.))

Tear out my spine.
Swing it through air and with the crack of a whip tell me I’m weak, and I will agree.
Soften up my skin with the beatings.
Maybe I still feel your fingers in my flesh every time I lie

I am a hiatus.
I am a helpless hostage, waiting.
So call me hopeful,
call me home.
I am trying to find the coward’s words for “let me go.”

But maybe I heard a poem creeping from the cracks in my bones, echoing through the ache of empty spaces.

—  giraffevader - II - I am god’s middle finger