To my pimple.
You are suffocating me. Sometimes, literally.
It's as if you exist for the sole purpose of sourcing out every last strain of pain that can be found on my body, quenching on my suffering. I have made no effort in hiding my displease for you, yet you keep happening. Undeserving tantrums have been thrown, sacrifices have been made - and your intent to stay reeks like aged cheese in humid air.
When are you planning to stop happening and infect yourself on someone else? Because I'm honestly, all-my-cards-on-the-table tired. Of you, of the bitch of a hindrance you are, and of the disorder you erupt in my life. The last time you happened, I fainted twice. The second one literally inches away from the first. That's how much grief you have invited into my life, so pardon me if I'm still not a big fan of yours.
But then again, maybe you're just the pastel-sketched man, draped in a dull trench coat - a passer-by among many others shaded into the backdrop of a bigger picture.
Maybe, just maybe.