i think that i have gotten 'less authentic/entertaining' since my last poetry collection and i don't know why
i think that it is maria vásquez's fault
or maybe my grandmother's
or maybe greg's
or maybe floyd's
or maybe my brother's
or maybe the broad who commissioned my last piece of art's
or maybe mine
i don't know
hard to tell
who do i blame?
i feel like a tangerine that has been very carefully pealed and sliced for the purpose of being crushed and thrown into the garbage disposal
fuck everything
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