Randoms at the Door.

There we go again. Randoms at the door. It’s happening so much again, it’s hard to ignore.

But if I react or answer it, I know things will get worse. Its like living in this flat of mine is just a massive curse.

The people who have been here before, frequent when they’re drunk. Only late and nightly, and in a steaming funk.

Banging on the letterbox, waking the neighbours up. Do I lay here quietly or scream out quite abrupt?

See they’re no friends of mine, but of my parents dear. But I’m the one that deals with them when they inflict the fear.

Fear of pure indecency and grotesque conversation. Filling me with dread, and angry motivation.

Making my blood boil to temperatures unknown, so I try to distract myself with my mobile phone.

Glaring at me in an antagonistic manner. Spuing crass conversation, apparently it’s banter?

But none of us find you clever or entertaining. My brain is screaming at me and loudly complaining.

Wishing I could shut them up, vile things my brain presents. Thinking of these nasty things, rendering me content.

These thoughts far too scary for me to consider. So I leave them knocking as I feel that would be better.

I can’t let them in, I’m afraid of my anger. I can’t let them in, my reaction won’t be banter!

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