Stay away, your entire existence antagonizes me. You make me resent my conscious, make me wish I didn't have restraint.
If only I could get paid to stomp on your pink little face, I'd relish in the opportunity and happily deposit the blood soaked check into my bank account. I'd do my job so well I'd earn a promotion. Then you'd know how it feels to have someone above you with no empathy or regard for you as a human being.
You're lucking I'm not crazy and I won't just snap and grab hold of a clump of your fried hair. Yank you to the ground and press my foot on your throat and leave it there. While you squeal like the little mouse you are, I'd sprinkle glass on your corneas and pull out your eyelashes.
Every time I'm forced to interact with you, it's all I can do to keep from spitting all the venom and acid building up in my gut, on your face. I often stare at you and envision you spontaneously combusting. The only person to save you is me and my immense amount of ire. I'd simply direct you to the desk you tried to move me to and tell you that will put out the flames and walk away. Only when you realize how little that did, would I consider putting you out with salt water.
If you ever wonder why my face is stoic when looking back at yours, think back to this poem and conclude that I'm probably envisioning smashing your face into a door.
Regards,
-JYM-
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