Somebody should have shut you up.
You felt so cocksure about your misanthropic opinions
And intoxicated solo-tirades, all the lights were on you,
The teenage naivety, I should have stayed at home
Instead of subjecting my brain to your open mouth.
I try to not feel ashamed of that girl sitting on the couch,
Without a clue about who she was or where she wanted to go.
She’d sit there, not saying a word, bursting inside, thinking
Of a million things to say, to disagree with, stand her ground,
But she’d crumble, thinking they’d never listen to her, or like her,
Or take her seriously because she was a girl, dolled-up, and there to please,
As soon as she left her front door she’d be someone else.
She didn’t even realise it. She’d waste her time and existed
In her fantasy world until she got hit in the face by the revolting
True state of things.
She wondered why those boys felt so entitled to
Blurt out their every single thought,
Where they got their inherited
Why did she feel like her mouth had been cremated
To tease, be a mystery, enticing and seductive,
The mute girl containing secrets and identities?
Looking back at all of you, I’d take myself out of that room.
Nothing of substance could ever come out of listening to you.
You were born with a silver spoon and clueless rounds of applause,
The world bowing to your privileged sex, and I’d think, for what?
Only garbage and a hot mess galloped out of your degenerate mouths.
Never opened a book, a chest full of hot air, and Mister Punch cock choreographies.
Your mothers, either the holy saints to avenge or abject whores to punish for life,
You never had a sense for nuance and humanisation, empathy or gratitude.
Your indoctrinating fathers that made you either piss your pants or repress your tears.
You were the bad kind of trouble, never worth it, a waste of sacred energy.
You’d never take a look at yourself, hating and blaming women left and right,
Judging and cursing everybody that was out of your depth.
Puddles taking on the Mariana Trench.