I've written a lot of poetry lately, and almost all of it has an edge. I think I've made people worry about me, actually. Yes, I've been going through some things. But a lot of what I write is metaphor in order to protect the indentity of people who've upset me.
Nothing about this poem is metaphor. This is what I would say directly to one certain individual who I watched nearly destroy the confidence and heart of another. Actually, this is the tame version of what I'd say to him. No, he's not on the blockchain, and I've actually never met him in person. He's done nothing to me directly. However, what he's done over the course of years to someone I know is utterly unconscionable. Thank God it's over now. May fate conspire to have him discover this post, read it, and recognize himself at the other end of my sharp tongue.
I am so angry at you right now I don’t trust myself to be within striking distance.
Don’t you know that words matter?
You never give a thought to the scars you leave.
Comparing your life with the one you damaged, I see only lack and no likeness.
You pale in that shadow.
I watch you circle back for more and I die a little inside. I grieve.
What a vampire you are, but not the glittery kind. Just a soul-sucking parasite
Who feeds on the weakness of others.
You don’t feel good about yourself until someone else is bleeding.
Speech is your weapon of choice and you use it to oppress and control
To keep people under your influence
Never mindful of any kindness they might be needing.
Look at you, out there running roughshod and insulting the choices of others.
I think you would exploit anyone to your advantage.
You fancy yourself as an international playboy
But you can’t even play your way out of a third world country without relying on the very one you hurt.
Will you ever see the irony?
Or do you just see roadblocks standing between you and the reckless lifestyle you enjoy?
Hard to imagine, isn’t it? That you’re the one who got rejected.
You criticized and ridiculed
Built yourself up by tearing another person down.
You’re so dependent on the high that gives you that the sudden absence of your emotional punching bag
Was like the loss of a best friend.
And now you’re going in circles, talking back and forth, chasing the blame for this round and round.
I’d tell you to grow up, but I don’t think you can. You’re stuck at twelve, or maybe ten.
Is that how old you were when everything changed?
I’d like to feel sorry for you, but you ruined all chance of that.
I’m just glad you’re out of the picture, off the table, gone from the bigger equation.
Your target ducked and bolted.
And I’m watching as the wounds begin to heal—without you, without regret, without ever looking back.