Taste

If you could read my mind, you’d hate me too. That’s the only reason I despise you. I can see everything you jerk off to, I can taste your feelings towards people who’ve done nothing worse than be happier than you. Don’t worry, I hate them too. If only you could see what it was that made them smile so.

I choose to live with you because your ugliness is scarily similar to mine. I identify with the tastefulness with which you machinate problems at your office, the slyness of your conversations with your parents, trying to take revenge for the way they fucked you up by making sure you end their day sadder than it began. I can see the mixture of disgust and longing you feel when I’m next to you. From the day I met you, I could see your wet dreams about me, writhing beneath your skull as your tongue parts your lips. Oh, you’d hate me so much if you knew.

I don’t profess to love you. But you are something most people I see aren’t. You are entertaining.