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I just. I just. I mean. Insert frustrated flailing right here.

I remember reading "The Princess Saves Herself in This One" and thinking "oh god, that was really awful. But I'm sure she'll grow as a poet, right?" And then I read "The Witch Doesn't Burn in This One" and was pleasantly surprised -- there were signs that Lovelace had honed her craft and I found it reasonably enjoyable. There was still plenty of room for her to improve, but in a way, I found that sort of appealing; what's more fun than watching a poet grow from mediocre to awesome? I don't know if that's naive or simply foolish, but, y'know. I hoped.

Then I read "The Mermaid..." and each of the releases that followed, and here I am. This is the last Amanda Lovelace book I'm going to read.

Bluntly? Her schtick is old and tired and cringey. She's technically released the same book over and over and over again, and stagnated. She hasn't improved her form, her rhythm, her imagery -- nothing has changed. It's another book of Tumblr posts of flowery white feminism and I'm sorry, it's gotten incredibly bloody boring now. And she still
suffers
from
pressing 'enter'
way
too
much in
random
places for
no
reason syndrome, which makes for a really physically uncomfortable read. (And also adds credence to the "anything is a poem if you break it up" school of thought, which helps steel those with the opinion that poetry is just lazy. Thanks.)

Let's end a review of cliches with another one: I'm not mad, I'm just really disappointed.