Resting Bitchface

I miss the way
we used to pass one another,
silently,
eyes never meeting,
greetings never exchanged.
When you open your mouth,
I imagine you dead,
with flies on your tongue,
instead of words.
I find that I hate you
more than I wish I did,
not because I want to love you,
but because you aren’t worth my hate,
aren’t worth my thoughts.
Get you gone,
back to a place
where I did not know you
and did not have to forget you,
because I did not
quite notice you exist.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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