O, minus.

You are the mud stain on my white summer dress.

You are the rumor

that while my ex-boyfriend

was praising me to my face,

behind me he was snickering

at my chunky backside.

You are the paper cut

in the fleshy, tender hammock of the skin

between my index finger and thumb.

 

O, minus.

How does it feel to have slashed

the throat of a 4.0,

waving your blade around

while your victim

fumbled in her pockets for all the treasure

she could give…only to make your final mark

when she wasn’t looking?

 

O, minus.

I know that you leapt like a ninja

from your clan of highbrow stripes

that permanently resides in the forehead

of my professor,

and landed with a battle cry

next to the alpha chief

on the Mac screen.

You bastard.

 

O, minus.

You know what?

You think you are pretty powerful,

the dash’s little brother,

capable of stopping the breath

in a sentence, the beat of an overachiever’s heart.

But really

you are a lowercase “i” lying sideways in pathetic disguise

without the dot.

 

O, minus.

Shame on you for being a stunt double

for a teacher’s ego.

Don’t you see

it’s a low-paying job

that spurs diminishing returns?

Everyone hates you.

 

In fact,

O, mi-nus,

Are you related to a-nus?

Because you’re most definitely

an asshole.