NebulaDreams

Oh, sorry, pardon me for existing. You see me as an incomplete puzzle. Well, I’d love to rearrange your pieces, and turn you into someone charitable. Surely, you’re the best expert of myself, indulge me in your chaise-longue psychology. You try to find constellations above in starless skies through false astronomy. We both communicate through a shared tongue but your ears detect garbled, random speech. Thanks for your slights veiled as compassion when your eyes only see a bleeding leech. You spit the tea I offer in my home, out your same foul breath that orates sickly sweet words of wisdom, like treacled refuse. You’re a hornet disguised as a honeybee. You fill the room with noxious opium then deliver the death of a thousand cuts. My riposte, I counter with a rusty knife: you are a drowning voice in a sea of cunts. Oh, sorry I’m not fucking polite when you throw shade like some vengeful eclipse. Screw these similes and this rhyming scheme; I’d rather not waste my breath on you