go drink a cup of bleach, she tells me

the crazy

Prozac

woman

finds my number again

and texts me.

i guess she escaped from

the asylum

once more,

chewing the leather straps

off her arms

and wrists.

she's complaining

once more about my so

called poetry,

which i admit,

are not all gems,

but my leanings to 

the conservative side

of things

have upset her

twisted woke brain.

she tells me to go drink a cup

of bleach

and die.

a more than enough vague theat.

my oh my.

quickly i give her number

to the police, the authorities,

the FBI. 

she might lose her job

when they easily track her down,

as they will,

which

would be sad,

but fine.