Sunday, October 23, 2016

My Ongoing Control Issues, Inevitable Death, and Pretentious Poem Titles

The toast was cold and brittle
the butter did not melt
but the butter knife was spotless
You thought to yourself,
"How do you fuck up toast?"
I felt guilty,
then extra guilt
because I made the next one extra perfect
Because when I die, I want to know
that for every one that got away
everything else was so exceptional
that no one even thought to notice
the occasional water marks
or people that just want to love you

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