Deprivation of solitude drags you
Into the inky alcove of messy emotions you
Like to pretend you don't have.
Shunting anger and ugliness to the side
Doesn't mean you aren't angry,
Just like breathing doesn't mean you can swim.
I bet you're really feeling sick now, with those
Poison words seeping into your head and
Dancing with the bile in your convoluted innards.

Despite the words and pictures
They show to persuade you otherwise,
You've got worms crawling through your brain,
Down your arms and into your fingers where
You release them onto all you touch.
You've got remnants of the plague
Weak, but devastating, and you push it
Onto everyone you meet.

You might as well have stabbed me in the eye
For all the good you did me, spreading your
Wretched disease of an existence around
Like you were the next great martyr.
If you are as patient as a saint,
Or even more enlightened than a rapist, well,
I suppose sociopaths can be compared to
martyrs too.

You're just too goddamn ugly, in the
Prettiest sense of the word,
To impact all the finest minds and
Gracious kinds. Hell--
I'd like to see you sway even the
Most malicious sludge. Good luck
Miss All-Too-Anxious borderline kid.
I hope your plague infests you.