I resent you for thinking you know who I am. When you can’t even see my soul in the palm of your hand. How do you propose to understand, from a place of constant hand me down frowns. All these aggressive adjectives claiming I’m negative, but who’s the one who’s always floating round. Never around. You’re subjective, and so are your nouns. You surround-sound me with your guilty, I’m losing moisture I’m wilting, I hope god forgives you for being reckless, and me for being willing. Aching for his worship is nothing less than idle, I’m holding my own self in high regard because it’s either death or survival. I refuse you permission to be the one who extinguishes my light, you shouldn’t have fucked it up, and you know that I’m right.