Here it is

I'm just going to sit here,
cozy in bed
drinking my beer,
reading the news,

listening to you stumble around in your room
and hoping that it won't be yours soon.

And now I'm discovering
with indecent haste
the awkward annoyance
of the flavor of distaste.
It tastes like pity, self hate, anger, indignation.

I kind of hate you? I kind of hate you.

But if this were another world
and I were another girl, or whatever,
boy, or beast, something more tame
Without this pride that blackens my name

Maybe we'd get along. But probably not
because the flavor of distaste

surely

is so pungent as to permeate the infinite.



(Probably.)