My fictional internet boyfriend
rewired my brain,
and now I'm okay.
Which begs the question:
What the fuck is still wrong with you?
I could be a stoner babe in Florida—
smoking in the A/C.
Or go to the Midwest,
try to recreate a past
that's been dead.
Or go full red-pill housewife—
an honest thought, sometimes.
When I've got future on future
on deck, and time to fiddle it out—
so what the fuck you
worryin' 'bout?
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