I knew it wouldn’t be long until everyone was sick of your shit. Look around. Everyone has left. I left and all your other minions are dangling by only a thread. A thread you tied around their ankles as they hung upside down, hoping that the blood rushed slowly to their heads. No discomfort in that. They’ll be wishing that the blood were rushing to their ears, numbing your sound.
You spun your web of friends like a funeral director. You’d place one in their own box, carved with their own label. The more us boxed-people spoke, the lower we were on your hierarchy, the deeper into the ground we went. If I had the chance, I would have stolen your shovel and dug you your own little ditch. I’d watch you trip, fall in the mud, scrape your chin or wrists on rocks. Squeeze you closed like an accordion, and drop you in a box. I’d leave you nameless. Your label is too good to be uttered, wouldn’t you say?