Ouch, quit it! That hurts! Lighten up, will’ya?
The agonizing squeeze of your vile grip chokes me.
The pain in my sides, the marks of your fowl fingers.
You press me and slam me and smack me on the head,
Until my insides feel like they are going to leak out of me.
You make me run, already aching, and follow my trail of black and blue,
As you watch the red fluids leave my frail, thin figure.
You grin with success as you finish your poem, and I am drained.
Yet you don’t reward me, you simply discard me, your tool.
This is how you treat me, all used up and dry.
To write a story about self abuse, and stepping on others to get to the top.
You’re such a Hypocrite.