I want a pill.
A little pill to wash the pain away.
I feel ugly and decayed.
Laying in a bed of dead flowers.
Looking at the passing hours.
I want to be over you.
You make me sick,
Your memory lingers.
I want to give you the finger.
Because you suck.
You don’t know it, and you’ll be in your reveries forever.
Reveries of being a “good guy”, ever so sly.
I hate you, like the rest, you’re not better.
You’re a hot, fucked up, mess.
I know a part of you has died inside, that’s why you refuse to cry.
About the things we did, the things we said.
I lay in bed.
Hoping I’ll wake up the next morning and be rid of your name.
The stain you left on my brain.
It’s so hard to get out, blood and tears.
Why didn’t you want me?
I thought you wanted that?
Signifying that I cared.
Now you’ve found someone with blonder hair.
Thin as a stick.
A total ditz.
I hope you're happy.
Joyous for a moment, soon she’ll be yesterday’s news.
Old trash to throw away.
Like me, in a dark, garbage bag.
Carried away to the dump of broken promises.
I want you to find yourself there one evening.
Sit and think, on the pile of faults you caused.
I hate you.
I will never be tricked by you.
Or any other man that says he cares.
I wouldn’t dare,
Sleep with the likes of you.
Be near your disgusting body.
Your crusty face. What a disgrace.
I hope your insides rot like your outer core.
You fucking whore.
© Copyright 2016 Kathleen Megquier. All rights reserved.