You’re a fly.

You’re raging tuberculosis.

You’re a piss stain on the back of a wedding dress.

You’re the carcass a vulture wouldn’t touch.

You’re blood soaked toliet paper.

You’re ashy cracked diseased skin peeling off a tumor turned green from wearing fool’s gold.

You’re a shattered mirror on Friday the 13th.

You’re a god damned car crash atop an erupting volcano.

You’re a wet suede shoe with a gaping hole in the sole.

You’re a forgotten rumor.

You’re an empty fucking shot glass, clown.

Everything about you is putrid, vapid, grotesque and

quite frankly,

pathetically hilarious.

To me, you are dead.

Fuck you.

Text me when the divorce is final.