Ode to the scared little boy who asked me to take a number or how I became a man-hating cliche

I don't normally write poetry or something like poetry, but I have a lot of built up feelings of hurt that need to be expressed, even if expressed through poorly wrought, emo-esque ramblings.  So here's a draft of something I'm working on.  I hope the poem reaches its intended audience and strikes a chord of truth. A woman scorned? Indeed. 

 "Ode to the scared little boy who asked me to take a number or how I became a man-hating cliche"
excuse me while
I step aside
and gouge my eyes out
with this spoon

did you fuck her hard
like she asked?
it wasn't the first time
it won't be the last

you grab my hand
I got it wrong
you got my back
but the line is long

you say baby take a number
your choices are "a" or "b" or "c"
her or her or me

but lucky me
your number one
oh lucky me
as you stick your tongue
down letter "c"

and this is the part of the poem
where rhyming doesn't matter

and this is the part of the poem
where you say
you didn't mean anything by it

I take it all wrong
I assume the worst
just like that one time
where you'd rather be homeless
than fuck me

oh well
lol
 
you're just like Lolita
an illusion
an ocean in the desert
a shadow on the wall
like Lola dumb and bored
ignore ignore igonore

and this is the part of the poem
where I say thanks
for making me into a cliché
I will do my man-hating
wearing a beret

oh well
lol