It's my fault really,
For choosing men
Who've never had a real friend before.
I used to be offended
By how I'm the "friend," yet
They'd turn around and date trash.
Not even good trash either:
The kind that's self-contained and mostly paper,
The kind that's easy to recycle. No,
It's always that wet trash,
With no bag,
That I'd be terrified to stick my hands inside, personally. . .
The kind that attracts pests like
I can smell it a mile away.
If my best relationships ended
Because Waste Management came,
I'd be emotionally unavailable, too.
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