kill the bitch

A little bitch has been screeching at me for some time. I am quite amazed that this creature can impose on my space with such possessive force, yet silently. Silently loud; a muted explosion.

She can have some airspace today if it will shut her up. But first I have a few choice words for her.

Now here roll the questions, after questions, for the sake of questions that no one can answer, no one but me, she is convinced.

I would fling this repulsive doll out of the nearest window if it wasn’t for this inch of distance between us. Inch of breathing space. One inch. No more. Just one. Is my last nerve.
We are mutual benefactors of this last nerve, it is almost placental. But we cannot recall who it belonged to, firstly. Nor can we decide once and for all.
But I just know id die if it were severed.

The one inch of last nerve is pink minced meat.
go ahead. Eviscerate me bitch.
I hope my entrails scold your red mouth.
spitting acid to spite your face.
I need beauty less than you do. MELT!
MELT!
Melt into pre-conception you bitch!

Diabolical of all is you don’t even care. Sly eyes through a whimper. For being suicidal you seem awfully adamant to live. You’re a freak of nature from a freak experiment from the latest freak anti-depression medication that has gone horribly horribly wrong. Sure, it works, but at what cost?

A snail is crushed; you cry a river.
A whole nation of people obliterated; you shrug?
You.are.seriously.mentally.disturbed.
You’d prefer the devasting blaze left by an escapee rat to that of universal equality. Total. Sharing. Complete. World peace. A full stop makes a capital and you could not even give a damn if that rat goes on to plague the world. You just release without no consideration of what you are releasing.
Idiot.

You’ll notice an out of place pebble before you’ll acknowledge your company. Watch out mrs daydreamer, you may get hit by an approaching automobile. Apparently the ecological is lost on the comatose casket they call your body. Would collision wake you up? A good stoning maybe? I know I’d like to kick you. But I wont.

I feel you pushing up under my skirt, threatening all decent company with a convulsion of out-of-context laughter. What exactly is funny about the out of line?
I press my boot heavy on your neck to keep you under the table. Don’t embarrass yourself. I drag you through all my hallways by the hair, kicking and screaming and you are relentlessly laughing.
It seems boys have kek and we have this in-in joke of a smirking glance. And no more than that. It doesn’t seem fair but here we are in the pleasure of a blush.  

I want to know: am I right in keeping you alive?

And now I need you. After all that. Thank heavens I didn’t stomp you to death. Please say something to lift my spirits; I’ve just had a near death experience Afterall. Anything. Just take me elsewhere.

and here she goes…

“a boy kissed me and so I cried until he took it back”

“also…I bit a babies cheek today. Now I feel bad about it”

“Therefor…if it is going to be oedipal, can I atleast choose which men father me?”

“if so, Breton I like. And some more too, just depends really. I’ll play it by ear.”

“if no, then how do I quench my cannibalism?”

A poem about sex or flatulence, or both or no? you decide.