Bottom Feeder (Segue 3)

Long walks with my temper take me down a dead end street in contemplation. Where do we start at the end? Before I could collect myself, I'm vacuumed in by a figure's arm-spread with fiery gasps of iron-air, cornered in my circle of friends. Won't he speak to you? Won't he speak to you? Wonʼt he speak? Wonʼt he speak? Emptied on the floor were the shells of my defenses. Placing in his own bullets of condescendence. Those people shafted me of my social weaponry.