I am Disassociated from My “Milkshake” and my Yard is a Mess, please stop trying to come to it

More anarchic poetry from yours truly with the good hair, truly.

 

I call it—————

Wham-Bam, no thank you, them–

Almond Milk is a Scam

 

Ever wake up and be like…

If breasts are milkshakes;

and I enjoy milkshakes

Why can’t I just enjoy my breasts?

Who even knows, ya’ll.

Who even knows.

Like, chocolate malts are why I identify as agnostic, not athiest.

They are proof that God might exist,

and that they might love us more than cats.

Cats can’t even taste sweet things, yo.

Cats somehow love milk,

but can’t taste sweet things.

Am I fucking cat, AGAIN?!

I’m not judgemental enough to be a cat.

Not yet at least.

Maybe if I stick….

hold on,

pay attention,

don’t skip this.

 

 

Maybe if I stick a straw in my tit,

I can suck the milkshake out

Start this shit from scratch.

If I lost all my titties,

would I lose all my empathy?

What if I stopped empathizing

once I become what I want to be?

What I wish I was, what we’re all

“striving to be”?

What if I arrive, and I stop feeling

who I once was, and only know

who I was supposed to be?

Would I be more like you,

smug, clueless, cis-privileged pony.

fuck boy, clueless and dense and

obsessed with money.

I guess that’s the risk I’ll have to take

once I finish this milkshake

Ahhhh, fresh femininity

Breasts-as-table,

farm-as-me.


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