To not be that guy who kicks the dead mouse
of his humility under the sideboard.
To not be that guy who leaves their compassion
hogtied on the dirty mattress.
To not be that guy who crumbles his promises into a joint,
licking the Rizla before twisting the end into a sharp point.
To not be that guy who makes hullabaloo
with his words, then sits back to enjoy the heat of the blaze.
To not be that guy who drops to his knees
to greedily suck on the muzzle of the 12 gauge.
To not be that guy who spends hours polishing
the regalia of his resentment every Sunday afternoon.
To not be that guy who snips off the pinkies
of posh folk who hold their teacup in a certain way.
To not be that guy who snarls
his way through the grey corridors of life,
baring incisors until the jaw ache becomes normalised.
To not be that guy who ruminates on victories
that he collects like coins,
caressing every detail, every contour of their faces.
To not be that guy who is found
a month after he died, with his cats having eaten
most of his face,
neck,
and all of his feet—apart from the bunions.
