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Tate McRae
All stairs bore me
like insects not stinging
beauty incense captivating
inducing some of its siblings
tofu mirth, the giddying yeast
I know, we're going, but a brim?
I swear, they have seats named
same ones missing in soccer games
I'm here for you all of the 365 days
pop music playing the best of the greats.
My head is up to the stars
their eyes send me in a dither
the twinkling of my own ever after.
Double sheets of the cheese
a slice of onion on margarine
she was all I had imagined.
So Close to What? I'm close to the infamous Anon. If you're new, keep up and keep your eyes open. The Anon is everyone who knows me and is mad at my success. They own mind technology—not the humane Elon Musk type; it's a cruel telepathy technology designed to make its target's life a living hell. It jags my mood, and for this reason, my playlist has changed. I can't read Virginia Woolf anymore, and mindfulness is a joke for me—you should see me try. My playlist no longer holds any Taylor Swift, but guess what? I've found a home with Tate McRae 🏡 ❤️.
Thank you.
