A Brief Dissertation On How Much of a Douchebag This One Guy Is

The words from last night
were still spinning in my head,
flying slow circles around my lifeless body,
picking me apart.

To him, I was some sort of Ethel Rosenberg;
some traitorous,
blacklisted,
commie bastard.
In his eyes,
I was one of “Them”
and “They” were
apparently,
“assholes”.

The picture he had painted
resembled Guernica;
something fucked up
and chaotic
and ugly.
He always spoke in terms of black and white.

I wanted to vomit brown green bile;
that’s how sick I felt,
that’s how much the agent orange burned
as he cut me down
with the speech he had prepared for us,
the words he had put to paper.

In his wake it feels like
“I am become death,
destroyer of worlds.”

Maybe he's right.
Maybe I should exile myself from Thebes,
and wander blind and alone
contemplating my crimes in the darkness.