The overgrown misspelled letter cuts like a knife.
The declarations that it was statism—not you—that tore us apart.
My political views—not you—that made you cower in imagined fear.
Time—not you—that changed things.
And changes—not me—that you cannot fathom.
Fuck you and your comic sans resumè—
and the perpetual fundraiser link in your bio too!
When will you do something other than scrutiny?
This will be my year, I pontificate on Bluesky.
I’m trying new pronouns and old boundaries
and will never again be friends with someone who claims order as his highest value.
Line me up like a product, your inventory
of rejected creatures you once desired.
I’m done with your YouTube history too,
because I never want to hear cis men
philosophize about gender.
Are you another dudebro or someone too
repressed to care?
I don’t know which is worse,
so I’ll negate you by trying not to care,
never wondering why isolation was your drug of choice and judgement your closest comrade.
You ask me, if I think you’re being homophobic, and maybe one day,
I’ll have the guts to explain why it’s not my problem.
