The first time I read Dickinson
Was in a box of magnetic poetry
gifted to me last birthday

 
because between coughed cigarettes
I lied;  
said she was my favourite poet
(it just sounded like the cultured choice)
Now I plagiarise her careful interiority
And debase her ellipses into periods
For my evil Kaur-esque pretentions
Of vapid internet relatability.
Where is she most suitably revered -
On the fridge door, or my Instagram story?
Emily rolls over.

I met Lorde in literature class last week
(Audre;
‘Melodrama’ has been my North Star)
Eyes overflowing with Thoughts and Prayers,
Tattooing “I am/ woman/ and not white” on
my four-poster bed with a thousand pillows,
I will write nine drafts of my half-anniversary text
for a boy who thinks I’m ‘kinda chill’
But only one draft of this poem.
 
Annotated boomerangs, sparknote bibles
Nails painted in highlighter,
Poems scribbled with eyeliner -
I appropriate craft for my sophomore cool
But it’s a unicorn-blood life:
I have an unironic imposter syndrome
and am narcissist enough
to resist anonymity.
 
Magic performs in class and asks me
for feedback, (of which I have plenty)
after she finishes her spell,
it is my turn to present.
floating along with banal validation, 
I dream of greatness. When it is convenient