memories through a self-serving crucible

i loved you once, or maybe twice –
it kind of sucked, or it was nice —
but you were everything to me,
or sort of great to some degree,
or maybe kind of, really, there —
i don’t recall, and i don’t care.

i saved the word from harrows once:
i was the world’s most brilliant dunce.
i used my superpowered wit
to vanquish each and every twit
who chose their vacancies to share:
or maybe. i don’t really care.

the doorbell rang. it was a man
who said they’re taking me away
to where the people never work
and see a doctor every day:
it sounded good, i thought, and so
i left behind that desk and chair —
i found that things don’t go that well
when i decide that i
don’t care

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