The Worst Kind

April 7, 2008
In loathing reticence
I feel the face of my enemy
by dint of
trembling hands,
but each digit like a scourge.

With blind sight,
and muted thoughts,
all other senses heighten,
so I can feel the
serrated edges of your hate.

Your corporeal breath is scorching,
and retrogressive.

O seething cur!
Rouse within me the cynicism
which will defraud us both of dignity;
and these scrimpy fingers will sever,
and break,
under the weight.

We have more between us,
in this wide berth and endless world,
than you may know.

O horrid truth!
Do not tell me
this face is my own.
Do not tell me...
what I already know.

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