I want to forget about you.
About my anxiety that you haven't texted me back:
[response to my angry text this morning...]
[was it warranted? probably yes...]
But the truth is
I can't forget.
I think about it.
You slice me up like the cheap-ass hot dogs my mother used to slice into my Kraft mac n'cheese.
Diced up coin shaped pieces of mystery meat dropping into a mass of noodles,
Smaller and smaller til there's nothing left of the original sausage,
Disappearing into your packaged powdered blue-boxed orange-y plastic cheese-goo.
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