I notice that I rarely despise her
For her personality or actions:
It is her contrived image that I hate.
Why should she mingle with those simpletons?
She laughs when a joke is not humorous,
Takes free drugs ‘til conversation interests,
Then is confused when I am furious.
She desires the peasants’ adoration
And wonders why my love is not the same.
Why should I pretend inferiority?
They are beneath her, so they grovel. Shall I?
When I murder her lovers one by one
The police will never find a pattern.
She cannot betray me – she thinks that they are dead.
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