I burnt my hand on the oven,
bright pink stripes, I know that this part
is called a weenis but it sounds too much
like penis for a poem, right?
I’m not going down without a fight,
ice, water, sudocrem,
and now i can’t sleep, my minds buzzing
with heated electrons, neutrons,
neutrally treated. Respectfully
declining the peace of mind and
my eyes will ache with the brightness
too high. I wish you were here
to make me fly. Soaring
at an altitude more than gratitude,
you make me complete.
Now let’s eat.


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