You suck.

There's a part in my heart,

a little, tiny, minuscule part that knows

people as pathetic as you

should rehabilitate,

contemplate,

abdicate your throne of entitled reputation.

You should.

With any hope in this world, you will.

I don't hope you burn in hell.

I want to watch you fall like a single, silent star

from your respectable constellation.

I want you to live as you are

and slowly, your irrevocable journey of hate,

and take and take and take,

I hope for no reprieve,

that you cling to your flimsy beliefs

and that a hundred teenager girls gather as an army

to the hatred of you.

I want you to live indoors, shackled by guilt.

I want rage to twist your smarmy face,

and for people to say;

"There goes the screw-up."

I hope you become healthy and old

and addled by your putrid goals,

and that the world passes on without a doubt to

How insignificant you are,

How unlovable you are,

And you die like that.

And if not,

I hope your phallus falls off.

It seems like a fitting punishment.