Contempt

Abortion

Original fiction and poetry on The New Modern Man by RF

I used to look at you with eyes of desire
Now I look at you with a burning fire
I wish I didn’t carry this burden
But you always had a way of hurting

Blonde hair and blue eyes
You never fool me with the disguise
I wasn’t good enough to involve in any of your lives
You didn’t want one of the good guys

A lifetime of abuse
But now I have no use for you
Never will realize the simple things I desired
Now I see you as a consummate liar

I have nothing but contempt
For the way you turned a nice guy into an imp
And reduced a proud man
Into an animal who emotionally limps

To think you play the victim
When like a predator you make mafia-like hits on men
Among others in a pack of wolves
You destroy your former loves

Now even when you play nice
I feel nothing but ice
And contempt
At the way you live your life, this fool you’ll no longer tempt

Expect no mercy for thee
When like a doe in the forest you scream help me
You had no use for me in your prime
I have no use for you now that it’s my time

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2 comments

  • Very well expressed. You never go back after seeing this too many times.

    They do this because they think they can get away with it. Media and educators bullshitting them from toddlers. Then the bright lights, shiny objects, loud music, abundant alcohol and drugs. Men are an afterthought; those are easily and often replaced Any simple feminine nurturing and joy, utterly stamped out by 21.

    At my age I realize there’s a new crop coming up every year. A new wave of 20 year olds, becomes a new wave of 30 year olds, then a new wave of 40 year olds. Now that I see them as interchangeable I don’t worry so much about ‘missing out’. Another wave is on the way. She looks good? Yeah but look at the clueless abandon in her eyes. This will end shortly and her smug younger competitor is coming up behind her.

    Beyond the Wall, nothing but silence and a hell of invisibility they never imagined.

    The Men … gone. Memories of the party years a faded memory. The last egg drops like a marble in a shot glass, sterile and petrified. Hot flashes and cat food. Parents gone; kids went into a medical waste bin decades ago.

    No quarter for cat ladies. Not anger, just ice. You look right through them with the same haughty contempt they used to look right through you with. No pull of attraction to deal with, she’s utterly spent. You walk out of sight.

    Her new Somali neighbours seem nice. If all goes well you’ll be watching the fires via satellite from the other side of the world.

    Like

  • Savage

    Like

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