Sinking Thoughts of Her

Oh that accident prone bitch! The fat slut that relishes any pretense of doing what an attractive girl does. The hair on her chin makes me want to vomit my food all over the well dressed waiter. With decadent delight she devours all that will have her. Her crippled husband lurks in the back-round. He relentlessly assaults her passive-aggressive universe, his fire a distant light that somehow gives a glow to the empty infinity inside her. She needs this glow, she needs the whip to crack on the many folds of her back. So she builds him up, stokes his fire. As for me, I am a disturbance in this field of disgust. She feels my eyes pierce through her straw houses. Her cauldron brews a bitter stew. She is enraged that I have the audacity to stare at her vileness, every calm breath I take, every time I do not look away from her spectacle she grows to hate me more.