Letter to an ex-lover
My dearest Princess of Darkness,
I hope this letter finds you happy and healthy and slowly roasting over the flames of hell. I'm kidding. I don't really hope it finds you happy and healthy. I hope it finds you on your knees at the bottom of a dumpster, sopping up chicken grease with an old sock.
I'm joking, of course. Remember me? Court jester. Pun master. Professional chucklebutt. Remember all the fun we had, me finding the humor in all of life's drudgery, and you moping and brooding and wishing I would just shut up and join you in your misery?
Ah, those were the days. But I'm sure you've moved on. I'm sure by now you've lured some other poor bastard into your lair of perpetual irritation and have saddled him with all the despondency he'll need to keep his gut filled with a black puddle of despair for the rest of his life.
What a lucky man he is, and probably already well aware of your determination to mine that bottomless pit of discontent, to desperately gouge out the walls of wretchedness, in search of something else to bitch about.
Well, God bless him. God bless his foolish little heart as he feverishly racks his brain for something he can say that will make you happy, one faint, flickering candle of joy he can point you toward, a single kernel of lightheartedness he can drop into your ears that will grant you at least a moment of well-being.
Silly man. He has no idea. He hasn't a clue that while he is attempting to move mountains in order to bring some sunlight into the shadowy valley of your life, you are filling your pillowcase of rebuttal with the rocks of contempt, waiting for his mouth to stop moving so that you can bash his fucking skull in.
I miss you, sweety pie, and whenever these waves of melancholy wash over me, whenever I crave your uncanny ability to kill my dreams, whenever I long for your raspy, bellowing voice to shove me into serfdom, whenever I yearn for the chains of love to cut off the oxygen to my brain, that's the time I like to carefully place a nail over one of my testicles and hammer it into the chair, you know, to remind me of how I always felt when we were together.
Wishing you a mouthful of ashes I remain,
Emancipated.
Copyright 2007 John Bizarre
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