‘deep down he’s a sweetheart’ she sighs, as if.
hah, as if that’s supposed to excuse the cruel,
stupid surface. not to be harsh or anything, but,
yes, he’s a waste of space and air; in sperm form
he shoulda been spit into a sock. good gawd, what
a base emotion, hate. I feel like if I’ve loved enough
the meanness can be forgone. then I catch a glimpse
of that entitled profile he sports so well, and, swear to
whatever, I’m a pacifist, but a bat to his face and knuckles
and genitals seems too soft a punishment. okay.
have a nice day, sir.