That is her way, and I wish
I were rid of her. The scales
Have tipped. What was a minor
Irritant now colors everything.
She always has to have the final
word, the more informed
Point of view. In any argument
She has to come out on top. Deformed
As her facts might be, she can admit
Nothing that might undermine
Her case. I can either submit
Or incur her wrath and her scorn.
It’s no good to search afterwards
And find I was right. She was born
To privilege, and learned at an early age
That what mattered was her opinion,
And that of her superiors. Mock sage,
She tries to convince me that what I know
Is worthless. Where we used to have a healthy
Exchange of ideas we now have a blow-by-blow,
Bloody boxing match where both of us stumble and fail.