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To explain the ways that I loathe you,
I guess I'll need to describe
The many falsehoods that compose your person.
Your personality, for instance, so kind and sweet,
Constantly reeks of melting plastic.
(Sadly, your facade is up in flames.)
The words that tasted of betrayal,
Acrid like the smoke rising from your worthless confabulation.
(I wonder how she can choke it down as it ascends.)
If empathy were ever to brave a pulse through your brain,
I truly believe it would balk
At the blackness swallowing your anterior insular cortex.
I suppose someone's love meant little to your self-obsessed disposition;
Until, of course, it granted you the attention you pathetically crave.
In the choice between the two,
I suppose your judgement was impeccable:
The willowy blonde steeped in the same stench
That you wear.