Slimy

I see you here.
Again.
Like mildew blooming under wallpaper—
quiet, hidden, but unmistakable.
A rot that thinks itself clever.
I screencap the visit,
add it to the file:
harassment,
stalking,
unwanted presence
clinging to my work like grease on a window.

Each click you make
boosts the numbers.
Each Google crawl,
each digital footprint,
feeds the machine I built with my own blood.

Thank you for the traffic.
I know you’ll hate that.

Hate that your envy is measurable
in stats and analytics.
Hate that your jealousy
serves me now.
That your spite gives me reach.
That I’ve turned your obsession
into a ladder and climbed.

But I still feel you.
And it’s slimey.

Your muddy eyes
slithering through my sentences,
taking in my joy,
my grief,
my art—
not to understand it,
but to dissect it,
to poison it
with whatever stagnant bitterness
you haven’t managed to purge.

It’s gross.
It’s invasive.
It’s the forgotten thing
in the back of the fridge—
the furry, stinking mess
sealed in glass,
so I can’t just throw the whole thing out.
I have to open it.
Have to confront what’s festering.

That’s what you are now.
A container of something long expired
that I have no choice but to deal with
again and again.

Your visits don’t haunt me.
They disgust me.
You are not power.
You are not control.
You are the residue left behind
after someone tracked mud through a home
they were never invited into.

And this is my home.
You don’t belong here.
Not in these pages,
not on this site,
not in the air I breathe
or the words I write.

You don’t get to orbit what I build
just to try and tear it down.
You don’t get to show up
and act like your presence isn’t violence.

Stay gone.
Stay off.
Stay out.

Be slimy somewhere else.