The storm inside rips raw, eats you up,
your precious scorn is nursed
with parental care.
In bed at night you sweat disdain
and quiet times fail to give rest.

You answer each day much as the last,
in resentful thoughts pried,
distorted with age,
yet you manage with ease
your fine-honed tongue
and you know how to hurt,
you've practised.

In steps and sly glances
you mark out your prey
watch them fall where they stand,
tripped up with your spite,
you're cruel and caught
in your own net, stuck fast.

Tell me, what's it like, being the victim?