They do not have your heart in their mind.
They try to make you feel uncomfortable in your skin.
They throw off your gait, trip your pace, trying to get ahead of you.
They point, they name, they poke and filet.
They see you in their way.
They say to fare is too fair for you, they say you’re okay-for a stepping stool.
They take steps out of their way to point you in the wrong direction.
They are the unreliable narrator; they are the antagonists of Serendipity.
They can’t hear you over the crowd in their head. All in their Fanclub look the same.
They can’t see you in their reflection.
They can’t see you in their reflection.
They seek beauty in resemblances; they do not see the artistry in the anomaly.
They make the marinade of maliciousness you soak up, you are tenderized by lies.
They will never stop trying to make you stop trying.They won't admit they'd wish you'd quit.
Image of painting by Edvard Munch [Public domain], 1907-Jealousy via Wikimedia Commons.
