Nobody Likes You Because of You

Nobody likes you
because of you.

Not because of rumours.
Not because someone “turned them.”
Not because you’ve been “targeted”
by some grand conspiracy of estrangement.

They don’t like you
because of the venom you serve
in every conversation.
Because even your greetings hiss.
Because your presence
feels like glass in the bloodstream.

They don’t like you
because of what you did.
Because of what you wrote.
Because of what you screamed
and threatened
and whispered behind every back.

They don’t like you
because you gave weed to a toddler
and thought no one would ever find out.
Because your idea of love
is punishment with perfume.
Because you scream loyalty
with a knife in your hand
and betrayal in your mouth.

You say you're being erased—
but you erased yourself.
With accusation after accusation,
lie after lie,
until even the chaos stopped listening.

You think you're feared,
but you're pitied.
You think you're silenced,
but you're exposed.

You are not disliked
because someone framed you.
You are disliked
because you wrote your guilt in ink
and signed it with spit and spite.

Nobody likes you
because of you.
Because the stench of your soul
drips from your every sentence,
because your idea of art
is just weaponry in verse—
shaky grammar
and contradictions
you can’t keep straight.

You are not a victim.
You are a mirror
that everyone walked away from.
And the worst part?

You’re still standing there—
staring into it—
wondering why it doesn't smile back.

You’re still standing there—
blaming everyone but yourself.