You are the cancer that
creeps its way through
the body, slowly
corrupting everything
you touch, becoming
putrid and vile structures
of carbon, that no
medicine can cure.
You are the rotting
fish in the garbage:
smelly, disgustingly
soft and squishy, and
flies all around your
carcass.
You are the nails on a
chalkboard, the high-
pitched screeching that
sends shivers down my
spine, hands to my ears,
and the willies down my back.
You are the house on the
street that looks abandoned,
with the siding cracked and
dirty, the shingles falling off,
the door on one hinge, halfway
ajar, junk piled up everywhere,
and the weeds and thistles
up to your waist.
You are the mosquito that flies
around with your high pitched
wings beating, landing on someone’s
skin, sucking their blood, and
making them itch, itch, itch.
You are the waiter that chews
gum while he takes orders,
wears clothes like he was
homeless, and ew, has he washed
his hands in a month? Or even
showered?
You are the dead skunk in the
road, making everyone’s life
miserable, smelling your
gruesome odors for five minutes
while we try not to breathe,
wondering if that was you or
grandpa in the back seat.