To The Women Who Hate Me

It is life calling, full of adversity, waiting for you to open the door and face its puppets dancing eerie on strings of ignorance and blind hatred. 
They'll try so hard to convince you they're real, that they're not made of hard cold wood. They want to be soft flesh and warm breath like us. 
But when I laugh and smile at their fool performance their strings become tangled and a crack appears on their painted grin.
And still the show goes on, for them, for us. 
She keeps yelling atop life's stage, thinking I'll listen.
And I say to her "I'm doing magnificent, I'm riding life like a bitch." 
And she stays pale, coarse, with bad hair and sharp shark teeth, afraid, annoyed, astoundingly stupid.


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