.poetry "crack of may"

I refuse to entertain you anymore;
you're just like all the rest,
malintentioned, painfully obtuse,
ignorant to why I have such problems
connecting to people like you.
There isn't anything that I can do

to change it; maybe it's a grand
fault of mine, a handicap, just like a deformed hand:
no matter how well you try, you'll never
be as dextrous as the "normal" people.
Just like I will never find a friend,
never. Never. Don't pretend

you understand; you don't, thick bitch.
How could you understand how many nights
I've been tormented by my past, the
should-haves, could-haves with old pals
who left me, saying I'd be nicer dead?
I should have took that nice advice. Instead,

I fought to figure out this "friendship",
this glorified ideal (and only that; it isn't real).
All I found were parasites, hangers-on
who only wanted counsel for their problems,
never giving any thoughts to mine.
Is that abuse how you define

a friendship? I'm sick of all of it, and
don't tell me that this time it'll be different,
because it won't. Society's illusions broke down,
and now I see this farce for what it is:
a twisted, sadomasochistic game
where every time you play, you get the same

result: relationships that scatter
in a mushroom-cloud explosion when (not if)
they fail. So save your breath; it doesn't matter
what you say, because I know that
everything you'll tell me is a lie.
And I won't listen anymore. Goodbye.