poem: i swear i’m not neurotic, i just have control issues.

she sat alone; men are formulas with no answer, with no

reason, and she can lay things out nicely in her head, but

hit /run program/ and

it is errorerrorerrorerror. they are laughing at

her; they are laughing at her when she goes into

the room, when she goes to the front of the room, to smile and

say: I am not

who I was, even three months ago. I am so much better, I am not

self-destructive anymore. Someone asks

a question, and she starts to code the pieces together inside

her 120 IQ (which is okay smart

but not good enough not good enough not good enough), so she

can answer her audience; but

all of a sudden

she can only think, how many calories are on me, today? 300, plus

200, plus 100

plus 450

plus 220

plus 100

and then the 70 I drank from the pineapple kombucha

in the glass can. And so the audience is just staring

at her, as she loses count

and has to start


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