the art of silent rage (fuck you, fuck you, fuck you)

her name was “I,”
but she told everyone, “call me, Me”
and then they did
and so she was
whoever or

the only people who liked her
were slightly drunk strangers
and the people who hated her the most
were her friends and parents
anyone who knew her
at all

Me was always saying, “I is a fleeting thought”
and I was always saying “Me is the same as I”

she and me and I were all alone
and we lied, we stole,
and had (inside) a hole
so gaping
that there was no use in naming
people –
i am not I and i am not Me and me is not i or I is not me

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