You body is wasting away faster than my concern for the knives you spit at me.
It's easy to dodge atrophied insults.
It's easy to resist the urge to air the dirty laundry.
That stinking pile you won't shut up long enough to swallow.
It's easy to float on the pond scum you create.
And laugh while you scream from the bottom of your shallow pool.
At a point one's anger becomes nothing more than a punchline for another.
Always.
