Posted in Poetry


Wanna know something tragic?

This one sour girl
followed me
around for two years, trying to appreciate
all my thoughts and ideas.

It was so awkward

because I just got pickled and pretty
much ran away every chance I got.
I don’t know what I was thinking—
maybe it would have been sexy

to touch her knee.

But nothing eventful happened.

When she gave up
all that was left was four tubes of lipstick
and this scrap of paper:
I don’t know who you think you are you’re just

a pile of atoms.



Trying to find the right words.

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