With her usual passive-aggressive giggle,
she leans over the gates of paperwork she’s built for me
and asks –- sincerely, I think -- if I’ve having fun.
God, grant me Tourette Syndrome of the soul;
Let me answer without thought or discretion or mercy,
let bitterness and sarcasm ooze out my pours like toxins.
Let me say the most honest thing I can think of,
which is, incidentally, the cruelest thing:
“I feel nothing for you
but deep, overwhelming sympathy,
because I’m going to blow out of here
like a second wind, like youth and discovery,
and you will stay and stink forever
like stagnant water.”