A Handful of Staples

Nobody screws over my friends and gets away with it.

...Or at least escapes without me hurling truly, truly scathing poem at their ego.


A Handful of Staples

I hope it hurts like
hell

Like grainy sea salt
rubbed into a thousand splintery
paper cuts
on the tender skin
of your
neck

Like being stepped on
by a
Clydesdale
on an already broken rib
leaving big plumb colour bruises
on your white bones

Like being submerged
in lemon juice
the pale yellow
acid
burning at your eyes
eating away at the soft
membranes
of your nose, your lips

because
it really should.

The powerful knowledge
that you’ve been an
undeniable
unoriginal
idiot
should feel like you’ve swallowed
a handful of
staples.