That toxic insect

escapril 1 - antifascist

When your friend stopped to talk
I didn’t expect you two would end up sitting with us. 

Unprompted by no one, 
you felt you had to tell us what really, 
really bothers you about ‘those gays’
as you called them.
You ended up contradicting yourself.
Nothing bothers you about them
as long as they won’t be bothered
when you hit them with a tire iron
if you see them holding hands on the street. 

Age reflected when 
you interpreted our silence not as 
indication to shut the fuck up,
but as invitation to keep going. 
You told us your favourite artist,
how you admired him.
You highlighted that admire 
was the exact word you wanted to use.  

You said you had no political inclinations. 
I can’t tell whether that was part
of nihilistic pubescent edginess
or if you were simply afraid 
you might get punched if you said 
you’re a nationalist with fascist tendencies. 

Somehow you managed
to get a hold of the Instagram account
of someone at our table.
Hours later, you texted her
an analysis, a portrait of herself
based on an hour-long conversation
and assumptions you made from stalking.
The seven year difference was a challenge
to prove how mature you are.
You tried hitting on a slightly alternative woman
you met in a punk bar;
I knew you wouldn’t be able to read a book,
but I thought you’d at least be able to read the room. 

I can only hope you were that way
just because you were dumb and young,
but I wouldn’t have been surprised to see you
at the rallies in Bucharest at the end of February.