You. You sit there in your smug glory—victorious in the face of my failure.
Your presence is overwhelming and i f*king hate you.
In separation, you are motionless and watching me pace and pull my hair
in contemplation. I can hear your tittering, gleeful in the knowledge that
you will get your way. I want to drop-kick the contents of your vessel into
the Atlantic Ocean and watch the feast as birds and beasts alike devour
you. My belly roars. You have successfully ruined everything, and i hate
myself for giving you that power. Tell me? How does one dispose
of f*cked up fondue?
YOU ARE READING
Juvenilia ✔/ a Nonfiction Undergraduate University Collection
Non-FictionA collection of poems, essays, seminars, and other miscellaneous papers from my Undergraduate Degree in English Literature with a concentration in Creative Writing and minors in Classical History and Publishing. ju·ve·nil·i·a noun 1. works produced...
