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.
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?
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 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.
you are a lowercase “i” lying sideways in pathetic disguise
without the dot.
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.
Are you related to a-nus?
Because you’re most definitely