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Dear Passive Aggressive Motherfucker

Audio file: Dear Passive Aggressive Motherfucker

 

Dear Passive Aggressive Motherfucker

Toby:
Look, the answer is still no. It doesn’t matter
how you phrase the question, or if you
try to guilt me into giving a shit –
the truth is, I don’t give a shit.
I never have. I never will.
You and me? We’re never going to be
us. So, get over it.

And while I’m at it, hitting on me
isn’t cute, especially after I mention
having a boyfriend, especially
since I know you have a girlfriend
(you mentioned her – or
did you forget that?)
Well, you probably did, considering
that you’re high.

Matt:
After not speaking for years,
you sent me an email out of the blue.
At first I was happy, until I remembered
why we stopped talking,
and realized you hadn’t changed. When I told you
that my mom died a few months ago,
you said nothing; instead, you talked about
a fairytale, mentioned how pretty I am,
and tripped your way through Planet Me.

You still don’t get it, do you?
It’s never going to happen. You
were the wrong place, and the wrong time,
always. For someone with so much wisdom,
you are an idiot. I’m glad that you
think I’m pretty, but no.

Bob:
You are not as attractive as you think you are.
You are not James Bond. You are not
James Dean. And, honestly,
I’ve read your writing. I really wish I hadn’t.
Some things cannot be unseen. And Fifty Shades of Grey
would like it’s originality back. Oh, wait…

And yet, you’re still trying to shame me
into…what, exactly? Liking you?
Forgetting that you make my skin crawl?
Shame only works if someone gives a damn,
and honey,
I got news for you: I have no shame,
and I don’t give a damn.
I think we’re done here.

Dear Ross:
We are never going to be facebook friends,
we are not going to meet for coffee,
I won’t give you advice about anything
(unless it’s how to shut the hell up),
and no, you cannot have my number.
I don’t give my number to anyone who does
finger gun hands.

Yes, I was deliberately ignoring you.
I thought you’d get the hint.
Instead you chose to sarcastically spit, oh
happy new year
and merry Christmas,

as if that would be endearing.
Did you expect a smile?
For me to take my clothes off?
That’s child’s play, and I am not a child.
You should not pass go.
You should probably run.

Because you may be a passive aggressive
motherfucker,
but I grew up with boys
who knew how to throw a punch.

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Categories: Poetry
  1. January 10, 2013 at 9:25 am

    Well done.

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