I found this book to be supremely disappointing, given the acclaim I’ve heard regarding R.H. Sin’s talent. To begin - I love poetry. I love free verse poetry. Poetry without any punctuation whatsoever isn’t art - it’s laziness. His periodic use of rhyme is half-hearted. Some of his poems aren’t really poems, but random thoughts, and he writes the same thing over and over. There’s no real structure to the order of poems in the book. R. H. Sin is a self-proclaimed feminist poet, but I found this label to be a falsehood. As a man, writing from the perspective of women/ describing how you believe women should feel regarding their relationships doesn’t make you a feminist - it makes you the author of pretentious platitudes (I saw another reviewer use the word “platitudes” to describe this book, and I found it extremely apt). Finally, Sin often goes into detail about how incredible his work is, and how the people no longer in his life will miss him because he’s the best thing that ever happened to them. He even talks about how amazing he is at sex. It’s very self-serving, and I did not like his tone. I look forward to reading his other poetry, and I hope they will be more well thought-out representations of his work.