You do not read Plath,
Nor Milton.
Or Wordsworth.
Or Shakespeare.
What do you read?
Newspapers, current affairs,
How to be great when
you're good.
How to be king when
You're already a prince.
Selfish brute.
Your TBR makes me feel old.
As if I were 40, not 20.
It drains the excitement of my youth.
Makes me feel small.
Immature.
Sad.
So very sad.
Why won't you read Plath?
You'd like how she described life.
How she described love–
One sided.
Insecure.
Lonely.
Painful.
Disillusioning.
–Like me.
Why would you need to feel bigger
than you already are?
When you already tower over me.
Do you really, that desperately need to look down at me–and everyone else?
Do you really, really need to
italicise your views through books?
When I already, perilously cling
to every word that comes
out of your mouth?
Your choice of fiction
makes me want to cry.
There's no love in there, you know?
Just greatness.
How to pave the way for majesty.
Is your panache not enough?
Why would you need more?
Why won't you read my romances?
Because they won't make you great?
Well you're not that great, are you?
You make me cry.