"You fucking Bitch!"

I want to say,
but the words, like every-
other thing in my life, are
strangled with the demonic
hands of politeness
and its friend,
a withering tolerance
(of stupid, stupid
Stupid people).

You are going to make
me snap, one day.
One day, you are going to scatter the
already broken pieces of
what I am and I might
just kill you. I might
poison your food, or
push you down the stairs.
Maybe I'll wrap long, slim fingers
around that awful, hanging
neck of yours.
Probably not, though.

In the end I just don't have it in me.

"You fucking bitch," I want to say.
"Of course (demon spawn from hell),
I don't mind at all."
Is what I tell you.