by Bad Music
Thursday, July 11, 2002
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two teenagers, unemployed,
spring to early summer
a sinful shitpile of competitive pettiness.
I, weak, allowing you, weaker, to control me, dominate me.
Condescending, and admiring at the same time with left-handed see-saw compliments
and I did none to stop you, helping you pigeon-hole me in the process,
gluing the building blocks of my personality together with catchphrases like "passive" and "submissive."
You were so full of high hope, delusion, and denial.
You, the self-proclaimed literary deity.
You, the "gifted", glistening, alpha-pompous hoax.
All of your aspirations of respect, book-legend, and moonlit glory have already been screened, re-run and cancelled in your own swollen head.
In me, you reigned over what you secretly knew what you could never be.