Stepping on toes protected by wet canvas, you shuddered past me, leaving me nothing but my new nickname and a phrase not synonymous to excuse me. It was obviously about me; the double-take and the sighing glare made that clear enough, but what wasn’t clear was your intent. Did you just want to be heard?

I understand the want to hold power over others, but what’s foreign is your heinous way of getting there. Your discomfort with progress is so apparent; it’s like a garnish on your personality and character. A dash of ugly—like an earring hanging from your lobe, pierced into your ear.

Your left ear.

Superiorly, your left ear.

How does it feel? Huh? This delicious power you sought for so heavily. It makes you stronger, more of a man, better in every foreseeable subject—doesn’t it? I wonder what it must feel like to bathe your taste buds in victory. It must be unimaginable—the power you possess, pulsing in your purloined patois.

Though, it must be hard to get a taste of anything with that cigarette tongue of yours—sanded-down and destitute. Could that be it?

You just want a taste of something, bitter or not. Your acidic insults have left your mouth barren of flavor and fire. You’re willing to burn your own flesh just to feel. It’s unimaginable. 

You use one word to leave my mouth feeling dry and yours antonymous—just so you can spit on me. 

Just so you can spit on me?

Go ahead, do it. Leave my head spinning as to why I deserved this just so you can keep yours screwed straight-on. Take this power and hold it and savor it and show it off—because it won’t be there long. 

You’ll always be able to say this word. You’ll always be able to do whatever you want. One is always able to commit an atrocious crime just as one was able to be strung up just for living.  

Just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should. Just because it’s fun for you doesn’t mean it’s good for you.

I’ll leave this applicable to you since that’s all you care about: your own selfish, little abscess heart. You don’t care that your mouth is spitting on those spinning from ceiling fan blades or rippling in river currents. You don’t care about what comes out of your mouth; you’ve never had to tiptoe around every facet of life out of perpetual fear. 

You’ve never had to care about your voice, your clothes, or the way you walk, but you’ve made it your duty to police those exact things of others. That’s what stuck out to you, isn’t it? My confidence and comfort in existence?

Does it scare you?

Does it confuse you?

Does it hurt you?

I don’t know what it does to you, but it certainly does enough to galvanize you to confront me. It was enough to encourage you to hate me. It was enough because I am enough.

I am so important to you that you just can’t leave me alone. It’s flattering. Really, it is. I never knew I had such support coming from you. It’s eye-opening. I guess I was just used to you telling me I wasn’t enough.

To you, I wasn’t even worth burning.