You took the dinner knife
that we ate with,
and you spit-shined it
with obscenities.
You stabbed my "freeloading"
back.
And I let it fester a wound,
before I pulled it out with my
bottom-feeder
claws;
the same claws that
shed splinters in the
woodwork of our
hardships.
My bleeding knuckles,
bare-boned, and filthy,
without the pennies
to wash them off,
couldn't heal fast enough
to stitch your
paper apologies to your
glass expressions.
Then, the house that "you built",
the house in Hypocrite Pit,
burned slowly,
like the lamp light
that flickered after dinner.