Zorro writes poems. Sonnets are his specialty. He likes the structure they
embody: their formal, traditional nature. His lucky number is 14. He claims
to have 14 lives. Says he’s already used 12. He says rhyme is a forgotten art,
and art a forgotten rhyme. He’s never cut his wrists. Never felt the need to
be isolated in a room crooning to sullen indie bands with a splashy color in
their name. Says emo isn’t his doing, and just because he’s clad in all black
and likes Plath, he’s not to blame.
(Originally published in New Wave Vomit)