I like mandarin oranges
I like the way they taste
I like they way they look
I like how they fit in pockets
I like their straightforwardness
I like that they are easily segmented
I like how easily shared they are with others
I like how I can hold a few in my hand at once
I like the feeling when I peel it all in one long peel
I like running my thumb under the skin as I peel it
I like the way they make my hands smell afterwards, orange-y
I like how people seem mildly impressed when I am finished peeling
I like folding the skin back into its original sphere like I never peeled it at all
I like when people play along when I give it to them even though they know it’s just skin
I like putting the peel on my head like hat or fake hair and pretending it’s normal
I like pinching the peel and looking at the little spray of citrus
I like ripping the peel up into little, tiny, itty-bitty pieces
I like having that little orange pile on my desk
I like knocking the little green ****** off
I like chewing on the big pieces of pith
I like looking at the word pith
I like saying pith, pith, pith
I like mandarin oranges

i collect stamps
not the mail kind
not the male kind
not the may hill kind
not the mayo ill kind
not the may hue kind
not the maim yew kind
not the mwaya view kind
not the mwayam myeil kind
not the amaway yilovski kind
not the mynsigwi malomisten kind
snot snee smail skind
rot tree trail rind
trotsky braille grind
hot bree hail's tine
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
­kind
mail
mali
alim
liam
ailm
ailm
ailm

how odd
even quaint
you, the paint chip
that i press against the wall
and have pressed against the wall
(and maybe will press against the wall
but
hopefully not
but
probably
but
hopefully not
but
probably)
and i would like
very much
for you
to stay pressed
holding to that perfect bit
of open space
so shaped to you
and your edges

but instead you lean
outwards
peering
not want to wear uniformity
and so you will
and so how bravely
that you, the paint chip
stand out
so caught in glory
that you don't see
i could make a bag of they, the paint chips
that you don't see
i'll just strip the whole wall
and layer it fresh
with paint
that doesn't talk back

I have come to you
Of my own accord

With broken hands and brittle heart
With fragile mind and fractioned soul

These tears of mine are part a toll
Till toll the bell o’er gentle knoll

Into the sun and by my birth
Once again a mewling foal

Fall will come and cold will break
Yet again for heaven’s sake

what
does it mean to be
a bad, bad person?
a no good **** of the earth bottom of the barrel objectively awful wretched poor excuse of a person with not a vestige of humanity in them (not even a little bit)?

mom says its when
i dont brush my teeth.
i dont brush my teeth.

girlfriend says its when
we're both at a cafe studying and she draws something on my to-go paper coffee cup when i'm in the bathroom and i don't even notice when i return sit down and take a sip.
we're both at a cafe studying and she draws something on my to-go paper coffee cup when i'm in the bathroom and i don't even notice when i return sit down and take a sip.

friend says its when
i don't put myself in the same pickle.
i don't put myself in the same pickle.

law says its when
i killed them all.
i killed them all.

a plum, a peach, a pause
youth and vigor's jaws
gradient morals

hello
my flower
i am the bee

let me
push and pull
at your tinfoil ****

watch you
blossom
wafting your smell

delicate petals
didn't even notice
how they fell

spicy nectar
simmers on my
tongue and throat

i nestle in flour cocoon
among fibers
tender strung

where i start
where you begin
its blurred

your pollen
your taste
spread by my word

What, you said, with tears
Ruddy cheeks and streaky face
Who swallowed whose pride