I hate you so much now that it makes me laugh.
You’re a waste of skin.
With your beady little sunken eyes that scale across pages of breasts and vaginas.
With your thin fingers and absurdly large head.
Your nose, broken a thousand times, I’m surprised you could ever smell me.
Bushy eyebrows that always reminded me of trash.
And your jaw that ran on for days.
Those tiny lips that showed no effort with kisses. Always forced never fervour.
Only when you wanted, never because you desired.
With five little prints, you walked your way across me, across my face and my body.
Across my hair and my mind.
With nubs, you imprinted on me like a bee.
You harvested me of my pollen and struck me with your stinger.
I moved too much.
I moved too little.
You’re a waste of skin.
A demon in a human body.
With rotting flesh you binge and walk your way through the world.
Smelling clean.
You waste minutes cleansing your saintly physique
Because you don’t want people to take whiffs of how rancid you are.
Your putrid organs slather the floors of your room as you collect them and put them away again.
You’re a waste of skin and you creep around.
You act so lonesome and manipulate people for your benefit.
Never giving, never appreciating, or loving.
A shallow bastard who is just as ugly on the inside as he is on the outside.
Your skin is falling.
Let me help you staple it back up.
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