I’m rather...
Annoyed that I told you to put out the cigarette, but
you had to have the last drag in the cab, inhaling deeply like it was your last
breath and blow it in my face, you’re smiling at the rebel in you that’s saying
“Hey dude! I just dumped my shit on you! Ha!” Cunt
Angry that you think that even when you are politely
told to please not eat in the cab, you think it’s “The thing” to carry on
eating and deny you are even doing it. Permeating my clothes with the smell of
your deep fried and reheated meat, my workspace stinks, my twelve hour
imprisonment in this three square yards of tin and plastic. Fuck you and your
wet greasy mouth and fingers that you have just wiped on my seats.
Disgusted that pumping your girlfriends pussy with your
fingers is ok for me to watch, smell and hear. You feel the smug master of your
moment over a female and me, the fateful me that is meant to be grateful.
Bastard. I don’t want to touch your gonorrhea’d shilling.
Incredulous that your cursing and wildly gesticulating
diatribe and droplets of spit hitting my face, my open mouthed face, my trying
to reason with you face, all the while drinking in your projectile spit. Why? It’s
costing you fifty pence too much. Your £400K house is nice with great kerb
appeal as I sit outside it, grateful for any money at all for my work, my
£5.70, my time, my fear. You strut away like a gladiator, walk away you
imbecilic fool, I am less of a man now, another bit of me chipped away,
humanity draining job of mine. I dream. Daydream in the dead of night with rain
and fog as ever-constant companions. The indicator ticking away my soul. I
dream of killing you. For fifty pence, yes, killing you, thinking no more of it
and having a cup of tea as my prize. Fuck you for making me feel this way. Fuck
you to hell.
You make me feel dishonest, my betrayal of mind, my
betrayal as my phallus reacts to your grinding in your seat and fumbling at my
crotch. Your breasts ample and willing to give, you’re playing the game, I
don’t want to play the game and feel your anger of being rejected. My own being
has betrayed me. My mind thought about it, even willing me on. My life could
have been in tears. Your wetness can fuck off, I hate you for making me betray
my path of love for my beloved, guilt ridden still for casting away your
willing temptation. My bastard erect betrayed me. Fuck off whore, wife of
another, teacher of children. Fuck off.
I won’t thank you for making me tearful. Your wife soon
to depart with ovarian cancer eating away, with itself not caring that its own
cancerous demise is coming soon. I won’t thank you whilst you pour your tear
sodden grief into my soul. I sit with you and hold your hand. My mind is
blessing you and your children. You should not have gone out to be cheered up.
You shouldn’t have gone out at all.
