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I resent making your turkey and brie sandwich this morning.

I smile full-mouthed as I remember the time you choked on the 12th grain of your pretentious 13 grain bread. I think you buy it to bother and one up me.

I lather hot mustard on your sandwich conveniently forgetting how you cannot handle its burn.

I hope it melts your smug eyes and drowsy lips until your face blares and echoes the blankness you are to me.

What happiness do you really deserve? The kind reserved for gnats and weeds.

Mild forgettable you.

I feel the squeeze of your mediocrity as I drop your sandwich in yet another bag.

I wish I too could be released down and away into a new darkness.

I your unforgiving sandwich slave