A Bowl of Me
I’m just like the last fruit in a bowl of fruit.
Now it’s just a bowl of me.
Magical thinking works like a toaster.
Just pops like it hurts and it might if it catches on fire with my mind.
Good riddance to people who know my number and I wish they would never call me.
I wish “good riddance” actually got rid of things, it actually collects more intrusive thoughts.
I’m just like the last fruit fly who pretends to hate fruit.
I’m still buzzing around, you know?
Alone but it’s not random.
Random like people who live near me.
That would have been friends in the other time line.
I’m really different from a fly somehow.
I like coffee and I usually can’t climb the ceilings.
But when I see myself.
I’m just a bowl of me.
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