and there is nothing quite like it
your senses linger:
the overwhelming scent of your breath;
the metallic taste your lips;
your callous, monotonous voice;
the horrid sight of pustules on your face;
your dismissive touch
on my lonely self
oh how you manipulated your way in me
how you took my words
breathed them in
coughed them out
your voice was too robotic
you followed an invisible design
a failed how-to guide in your head
distant and mechanical
no want, no passion
you had nothing
but as if to prove a point
to some unknown audience
you stole my words
with my emotions and meanings
made them yours and
basked in the praise
of your plagiarism
of your literary rape
and there is nothing quite like it

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