I don’t even know where to begin.
You deserve nothing but endings;
a series of full stops to end each period of life,
past and present,
you will be removed from conscious memory,
because future you have none.
Damnatio memoriae,
if only I could.

Arrogant, disgusting worm
dragged from the car like trash.
Remorselessly laughing
as you roll around in your own shit.
Your Incel face wouldn’t last a second
in a cell with a real man;
but real men, you keep those in folders
hidden deep within folders
for girlfriends to find and you to deny.

Girlfriends? Why did I plural?
You only had one, and compared in age,
‘girl’ is the operative word. We know that now.
Such a wicked web you weaved,
and for how long? Who knows,
but deceit seems to be your middle name.
The one you hid from each and every one of us
so widely spread.

Sad, pathetic, nothing more than average,
parading around like a peacock.
Leeching off others as there was zero talent inside,
just hot air and bravado.
Toxic fumes choking the lives of the innocents
you preyed upon.
Vile, venomous, vacuous waste of space and time.

Even these words are too good for you.
They come across as displaying
some form of emotion towards you,
when in fact they only wish to word
the empty chasm of nothing that is
the void of whatever it was you pretended to be.
There is nothing because you were nothing.

You was written in December 2021.

Copyright © Dominic Lyne, 2021

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