One Brutal Friend
Closer than my own spleen,
he calls me buddy.
“Hey, buddy!”

As if struck by a fever,
a silent malady,
he changed—
morphed into a beast,
a movie beast.
An ogre.

Where did the grandiose come from?
What street did you drag that arrogance down?
A lack of empathy,
a thirst for admiration so cruel
it drowns reason.

But he wasn’t born like this.
I knew him long ago—
when “the floor is lava” was gospel,
his bike had no spokes,
and breaking curfew was unthinkable.

Now he calls me.
Then hangs up.
Then calls again—different number.
Games.

I don’t like it.
Don’t call my second phone.
I stole it.