He told her that she writes so incredibly terribly,
And asked if she had trouble sleeping at night?
Enforcing the fact that, yes, she probably should.
As it was, really, the only polite thing to do.
He told her he combed her pieces for mentions and alluding ideas,
But found them all far too easily.
Familiar embarrassments.
Familiar situations.
He told her that it was so disgustingly rich.
That it clawed heavily on his anxious, weak stomach,
Making him vomit on her scraped wooden floor, just inches from the bathroom.
But only because, she writes so incredibly terribly.
