I wonder why you called me.
It was only for a few seconds, but long enough to know
I didn’t like you or care for you.
Your foul words and your ugliness,
these are the things that make me angry,
that send me into battle.
I know a fighter’s words.
You think you’re entitled when you’re not.
It isn’t funny or clever. You aren’t the miracle people want.
You’re the rotting fruit hanging from a tree.
You’re the thing people kick out-of-the-way to get to the good stuff.
I will never take your lousy demands and make them my own.
I won’t justify your needs, your views, or your sickness.
I won’t twist it for your benefit.
It was the bitterness underneath your words,
it was your unwillingness to recognize you’re touchable that created this space.
Quite shocking to you, but all too familiar for me.
I’ve done this before.
It’s what I call predictable, but you call it something else.