Please don’t take me back

So I blinked, and in that moment, I existed.
Slumped on her sofa I watched him talk,
Of course the slander was irrelevant,
His hair was all messed up, always was,
I heard him whisper and shout. Oh God.

His gaze was strangely bloated, plump,
His continued drivel, inconsistent and false,
Some disheveled calf, that speechlessly,
peers at its mother, slaughtered by Genesis.

So I nonchalantly gazed at her,
Sitting, staring, awkwardly opposite,
Accepting, listening, an internal grin,
Girls always seem to read earlier,
And such she read him, 
and ridiculed the first page.

To be honest I’d had enough until,
Her mouth printed inverted texts,
Modernist texts in the seventh century,
And he read. “Thou art translated” , 
Carve your thoughts onto your palms son,
Not onto thin, bleached paper.

They part and so do I,
Every hour on average I’d say,
Never do hear those whispers (not that I want to)
Your forward’s done now son,
My blood-soaked hands now read;
“How does my hair look”.