I'd like to start with two statements of fact: 1) I fucking nailed that shit, and 2) I'm an asshole.

Should've been hired. Should've been fine dining with my newly raised salary by now, but no. Why? You ask. I'll tell you why. Because of fucking Derek! Derek, for lack of a better term, is a fucking cunt. Pardon me. I'm sorry. I'm not, but I am, if you know what I mean. Because he is actually a bitch with a capital C. For context, here's is my (very apt-and not biased at all) description of Derek: tall muscley guy who wears shirts three sizes too small, always stands with his hands in his pockets, rocks back and forth on his heels so as to subtly thrust his junk in the direction of anyone who's unlucky enough to be trapped in unwanted conversations about his latest investment pursuits or protein shakes, and smells like cabbage farts. I'm not wrong, ask Lenny (my completely unbiased friend who just so happens to not work in the office and has never met Derek). I'm a reliable narrator. You'll just have to trust me on that.

Anywho, Derek got the promotion...Why? Couldn't fucking tell you, but do you wanna know who can? Stanley. Stanley can. Who's Stanley, you ask? Well, if you'd calm the fuck down for a second, I'll tell you. Stanley is the homeless man I vented to whilst not drunk at all waiting for the blue line to arrive. For the record, I'd like to say, that I'm handling this whole thing very well. Anyway, do you wanna know what Stanley pointed out to me when I relayed my woes? Stanley said, "Wanna know what I think?" I don't recall giving my consent for the continuation, but continue he did, saying, "I think you'd be pretty pissed off if I showed up at your house unannounced and dropped all my emotional baggage in your lap, and that's why Derek got the promotion." And then he motioned for me to get off his bench.

Heavy lies a winter tongue,

Whispers cast from frozen lungs,

Fear the silence of frostbitten screams,

That shake me from necrotic dreams,

Exorcise or cut them from me,

Before the nightmares feel like company.

Darkness in search of a feast tonight,

Drink until I drain the constellations of light--

Until there's no north star in the sky,

Just aimless rocks in a once beautiful lie.

Space-junk coated in ice and defeat,

Echoes devoured before they repeat.

Gift me death

By hole in the head.

Kill the thoughts,

Before they turn to dread.

The deadliest weapons

Don’t cut, they thread.

I’m a bullet board.

Fill me with lead.

Another lost cause,

Steeped in red.

If you’re looking for humanity,

You won’t find a shred.

It was a fleeting ideal,

And it's fled.

Making space,

For the pain to spread.

Hope is beautiful,

Even when it’s dead.

Tears don’t fall,

They’re shed.

Like blood on the,

Black and blue paths we tread.

Casually leading us,

To our deathbed.

If it’s love, you wrote the book.

I still feel the flames you forsook.

You could burn me with a look.

Got me dangling from your hook,

Like a fish out of water.

You’re extraordinary.

God damn, incendiary.

You make the fire look benign.

Boil my blood and drink the brine.

You’re less a flower, more a vine,

My neck’s where you twine.

You’re extraordinary.

God damn, incendiary.

I'll smile while you rip me apart,

Drain the blood from my heart,

Frame the stains and call it art.

I see the end before the start,

Love can only lead to slaughter.

Hey fucker,

It's me. Remember? Of course, you do. How could you forget? You were in my closet, under my bed, beneath my stairs, behind me, and anywhere else you could wiggle your fear-mongering tentacles. But I was too smart for you. I found your weakness, and I told all my friends. Every. Single. One. I'm betting business slowed down after that, didn't it? Who knew, Lou Bega's, "Mambo Number 5", could thwart a demon? Who knew that Lou Bega was, not only, a kick-ass dance instructor, but also an exorcist? I sure-as-shit didn't. So, sing it with me, "Jump up and down, and move it all around. Shake your hands to the sound. Put your hands on the ground. Take one step left, and one step right. And one to the front, and one to the side. Clap your hands once. Clap your hands twice. If it looks like this, then you're doing it right."

Sincerely,

She who thwarts demons.

A victor by revision,

We’ll call it historical precision--

Each cut, a surgical incision.

Come children, hear the exposition,

Never mind, convenient omission,

Who needs facts, when you have sedition?

I hate to use the truth as ammunition,

But I have a supposition:

Perhaps, guilt is more than an admission.

I’m entirely too skeptical,

To be profound.

I know falling trees,

Will find the ground.

And, despite my absence,

They’ll still make a sound.

He wasn’t born bad.

It grew into him,

Like a parasitic shadow,

He wore like a second skin,

and eventually sunk in—

Stained his soul.

A symphony of strangers,

Always judging him.

They say he’s a worthless,

Good-for-nothing blip.

A malicious mantra,

That repeats in is head,

Tells him again and again,

To let the darkness in.

They wrote his ending,

Before he began.

You’re the architect of my insecurity.

Build me up, and watch me bleed.

I’ll play the object of all your scrutiny.

Size me up, and watch me sink.

One day I’ll be the perfect monstrosity.

Shoot me down where they can see.

I’m just a portrait for your curiosity.

So hang me up and let me be.

Pretty sure I’m dying.

Maybe I’m just histrionic.

Either way, I’m pretty sure it’s chronic.

Wait. Who am I talking to?

I thought that it was you,

But maybe I’m a schizo too.

The paranoia’s setting in.

Someone put me in the looney bin,

Before I go berserk again.

All this mixed emotion,

Let’s call it compulsion—

This undeniable notion,

That we all need a diagnosis.