STOMP. STOMP. STOMP.
The art deco chandelier sways. The ceiling shakes.
There’s a terrible man upstairs.
Huffy. Whiny. Yelling.
He yells at his girlfriend. He yells with his feet. He yells with his shitty techno music.
There’s a terrible man upstairs.
I feel him before his fancy small-dick car enters the gate.
I know when he’s coming home.
Energy’s like that. It doesn’t stop for walls or floors.
I can’t live beneath a terrible man.
I’ve been there before. Smothered. Small. Unable to breathe or be.
So, I’ll leave, because I can.
I’m grown up now. I have money. Experience. Talent. Knowledge.
All the things I need to get to away from terrible men.
