Malediction: Vile Roach

VILE ROACH, do not encroach upon my space.
I will not dignify your quest; the pain
of your immortality does not grant
you the privilege of touching my things,
studying my journals, or eavesdropping
on the life I am trying to create.
Vile roach, do not approach and beg for love.
I can barely love myself. And you, so
gauche, sporting last season's shiny brown suit,
evoke nothing but prehensile contempt.
Vile roach, do not reproach me for my spite.
My hatred's wired hard and cannot change.
My fabled loving-kindness is left cold
by your form. I wish for your libraries
to burn and your Dark Ages to begin.
Vile roach, I saw you poach the gingersnap
crumb I laced with boric acid and cast,
Gretel-like, upon the ground, so you would
bear your doom to your nest behind my stove.
Now you’re shambling like a homeless drunkard
and appear to be missing a wing-thing. . .
Stop! Do not attempt to hypnotize me,
Gypsy, by pretending pending ruin!
I will not — I repeat — will not love you
or give a damn for your welfare, so stop
with the crippled limping, the dramatic
body-dragging, as if you were near death.
You’ll outlive all of us, you bastard bug!
Vile roach, I'll not broach this topic again.
Leave my house at once! Get on with your life.
Let no roach say he had his way with me!

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