it's a sliding scale, and you're still an asshole

 
On a scale of one to ten  
you make me feel like a negative  
and I’m too passive-aggressive  
to tell you how much I hate  
your complete disregard  
for my existence  
 
Hell has become easier  
than fighting over dust mote problems
that’ve grown into  
an allergen nightmare  
and now no amount of self-medicating
can make this all okay  
 
Because all this tired rage  
has my fists itching for a wall  
with a picture or my own face on it  
for being the doormat you shove  
out the second story window  
whenever someone smilier comes along  
 
And true to form  
I’ve turned my phone off
and decided to ignore you  
though true to form  
you never bothered to text me back  
to see if I was alright  
 
© Indie Adams 2016