I’m a stubborn son of a bitch.
I want to go to the party
if only to prove I’m not afraid
when in fact I’m scared to death.
The office gossip,
who sees all and knows all
even with me and her,
frowns when I say I might attend,
even as I quake in my shoes
at being in another bar
where she can put on a show
to get even with me,
she is a master of that universe
and has power to drawn men’s attention,
and I am a sheep
led by the nose to slaughter,
no Daniel in that den of hers,
while she may have a splinter in her paw,
I am incapable to removing it,
since I’m the one who put it there
I’s a stubborn son of a bitch,
but not stupid enough to be there
to give her the spike she might
smite me with,
my already vivid imagination
filling in all the details.
I have no need to see if for real.
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