Hellsite

No one is talking about this
⏤the Portal collapsing,
the grosses and grosses of disks
that will slowly stop spinning,
the fascists and propagandists,
the state actors and war criminals,
and most importantly
⏤gasp⏤
the lack of decorum.

No one is talking about this
⏤the reduction of cultural criticism,
of the desire to see all of us
collectively
grow,
to some snarky Internet Novel™ and a Buzzfeed listicle on
the Ironic Despair Industrial Complex and its Discontents,
which it itself is wholeheartedly a part of
⏤it is perhaps no wonder Lockwood could only see
the trees for the trees.

No one is talking about this
⏤but the guys and dolls,
⏤but my sisters,
who are all talking about this,
who are united in talking about this,
who have no desire to go quietly into the night,
into the camps,
into the circles of hell
⏤we’ve all already been locked in a room with No Exit anyway
with a lesbian and an adulterer and a gold digger to keep us company.

No one is talking about this
⏤but my sisters in the Portal,
where we find each other,
where we meet,
where we love one another,
where we swear our allegiance,
where we try almightily to show kindness to one another,
where we promise to defend each other.

No one is talking about us
but us.
No one is keeping us safe
but us.
No one will both mourn the Portal and be the first to put it down like a dog behind a barn
but us.
No one is telling you what the future will hold
but us.

No one is talking about this
but us,
on the Hellsite.