completing tasks
gets me berries and greens.
i want honey
everywhere except in
the place you
can never put honey, stupid.
"it's
disgusting" said the tv teen
being ultrasung.
in the kitchen i'm mumbling
outloud in
another language (the heard internist)
"only red
and yellow spices allowed"
as if there's a
doctorate in my pocket.
then my forehead
glints in the hoodlight's
wafting citrus,
carrots. singing
"bowl of
oranges" with aggressive joy
at spots to
breathe in, between "worry"
and "now i
got". i'm so sorry
that i have to
cover my face so often now.
holy hell, i will teach myself to think,
"i'm in a holy hell with
geniuses."
{{edited}}
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