fucking talk to me
           don’t try to buy me
           a drink
          don’t engage
          in any way
          and don’t tell me
          to cheer up or i’ll
          stab you in the face
          with my Christian
          Louboutin Iriza heel
          i’d nuke every single
          one of you, all your
          family restaurants
          your sunsets
          your birthday parties
          for the fuck of it
          leave me on the side
          of the road
          or drop me from a VKS
          Tupolev Tu-95
          over the
          bleakest part of
          Northern Siberia
          with nothing but
          the clothes on my back
          a hunting knife
          and a box of matches
          don’t think there might
          have been another way
          there isn’t
          right now