Becky Writes.

Almost dying (again) was the tits, yo?

Becky Writes. 

I've quite unnecessarily and abruptly fired.

Unceremoniously tossed out on my redundant tail.

Turns out my gifted flower is alarmingly inspired.

I've a sneaking suspicion She was transplanted from Hell.

How embarrassing.  Replaced by a social nicety.

Granted I had just done my best to give up and die.

Somehow though, I doubt this plants veracity.

I'm no fool.  She wishes I'd give it another try.

Crowded now upon a view built by hands less broken.

My sanctuary once inviolable now less certain.

Subtext, shoulder to shoulder, remaining unspoken.

Relegated to my fate. The man behind the Curtain.

I'm not humble enough to tolerate such disparity.

I'm a smart a*s, arrogant, seductive little f****r.

I never learned to play well with others, me.

Now the Devil on my shoulder snickers as I suffer.

If I'd any wisdom I'd never have named this bothersome thing.

I've never been one to ignore my own intuition.

Yet here I sit.  Thrown off by a Mischief born of Spring.

Fuchsia petals should require proper petition.