I am looking for a fight, I know it. The kind that tastes pennies. The kind that lets me say, “fuck you“. Slowly. Meaning it. Not as a laugh, joke, haha.
I want to say, “fuck you” and look you in the eye. I want to talk you into taking a flying fuck. And I want you to deserve it.
I never get to be vindicated. Not nearly enough, not to my satisfaction. My choked rage is a castrated old thing. My fury seethes, frothy. It can be chilling, but it never explodes. It is polite, speaks clearly, cries and most importantly — uses its words. It says “please“. And “you have hurt me” and “I am sorry for this” and “you are forgiven” and “I understand“. That’s its language.
I wish to gag-stuff my musty outrage into a drawer. Light a new kind of fire.