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John Bainard

October 20, 2009

John Bainard,
you are such a fucking
fruit.

I remember in the
sixth grade
when you got caught
lingering in the locker room
until all the
naked boys

had left.

I was the first one to
beat your ass
in high school
behind the stadium
bleachers
for smiling at me
without my permission.

I made it a point to
ram my tongue down
Ilene Brennan’s throat
when I caught you
eyeing me

at Senior Prom.

Fuck you, John Bainard,
for every time you brushed passed me
in the hall
or on the street
or that one time
at the club,

you fucking faggot.

Fuck you, John Bainard,
fuck you and the first boy you blew.

I hate you,
I would kill you
if I thought you were
worth the prison time –
surrounded by a bunch of other
homo’s trying to tag my ass
like I was their bitch
and probably beating me bloody
afterward.

I hate you,
John Bainard.

I fucking hate you and
everything
you stand for
and I’m happy you’re dead.

Just a butt humper in
a fancy casket, now,
aren’t you, John Bainard?

Is the wine bottle still up your ass?
Can you still taste your own cock in your throat?
Was I the last thing your little faggot eyes saw?

If I kiss you now,
will you forgive me?

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