How many times do I need to slice off the same tumor?
You useless conceited bitch of an underwire scratch.
The fact that you seem to believe that you’re important enough to be the one that got away for me is
sadly more than preposterous.
I told you that lie, not for you, but for me, so I’d stay tethered to this fucked up earth I never even asked to be on, to begin with.
Sorry, I’m sorry.
I’m simple and I can love very easily with no intentions of letting go but unlike you, my love does not come from
narcissistic emptiness, If I don’t fucking benefit, it still exists, that’s how I know, and I also know that is not a feeling you have ever felt before.
I wrote twenty thousand words of a fictionalized version of what occurred between us and you had the gall, nay, the audacity to think you were the story’s protagonist and that the tragedy of the narrative was that we won’t end up together, or rather, I don’t get to have you.
Bitch, you’re a ball of yarn.
I sat you on a pedestal as a pet and you thought you were suddenly bronze.
You’re a cocaine bump in a bathroom, not a goddamn mortgage.
You seem to still be just as empty as you ever were, full of undeserved pride, and honestly other than the cut of your fucking jawline everything about you is trivial, menial, colloquial, and in a big pond, easily replaceable.
I fucked with you because I could, not because I had no other alternatives, YOU KNEW THAT I DID and as a matter of fact, that was your favorite part.
I made you seem like you were more than you are, and you agreed to play along and now you think you’re better than my overvaluation?
I’ve tied you to a bed boy and squatted to piss on your face.
Be more of a vapid slug about it, plaything.
I adored how you moaned, yeah and maybe that shit was wrong on my part, I knew you little dirty child this entire time but I’m a poet- I’m not pretending to be
I live for yearning, dummy.
Tell you what though, as painful as it might be for me to admit I was wrong, for me to finally go ahead and leave your punk ass alone, to stop writing the manuscript and leave that bullshit unfinished, it is what has to happen like 2021 leads to 2022.
I will have less and less of a desire to humiliate you going forward, your soul is unreliable and easily swayed and you’ll be ugly for most of your life when you get older, it’s already happening and I can feel it.
I’m sure you can see it for yourself.
I feel sorry for you, that’s what the story was going to be.
And you weren’t even the lead.
I’m actually more sad for you now than I ever was.
Your delusions of grandeur are thicker than your skull
so I imagine what brain you did have
will deteriorate soon enough.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I didn’t want to have to let you go
much like when a family dog dies
but since you feel you were more important to the family unit than a pet should rightly be, I’d rather let this be it, and quietly, calmly, peacefully release thee by saying a resounding
I’m not going to even bother texting you this
you know where the fuck my blog is
come read it and feel immortal anytime you need…