F*CK YOU B*TCH

How could you?

I can’t believe I’m writing this to you, and some how it makes perfect sense to me.

For you to have so little regard for my feelings or for the moments in time that still exist with us laughing, kissing, loving one another.

How could you be so fucking selfish?

Are you so desperate to not feel that you’d risk everything that made feeling worth it?

Are you that scared?

Scared to be alone. To have to handle your own shit like the adult you refuse to be?

Are you so evil that you’d bring in third parties to not have to be at the party unaccompanied?

How could you stomach that travel knowing I would see it. Knowing that my intuition would ring like church bells decreeing false commitment just in time to show me the beginnings of a charade.

Oh are you in love?

Is it possible that you spread yourself so thin that you ran out on one end in order to pack the the other?

To pack a suitcase for 5 days of fictional expression.

You fucking bitch.

Do you yearn for me that much?

That you’ll settle for seeing me in the eyes of my heir?—my son plucked too early from the throws of young adult-wonder and placed right into the jungle that is your psyche.

You’re a fucking loser.

Childish and small.

In stature and in presence. It’s giving nothing.

You have nothing.

As hard as you felt like you tried. As victim as you constantly strive to be. You are worth less than the story of the woes you create.

Hindrance. Unmovable from your high horse while people look at you from below through the binoculars you demand they wear.

If lowered, for even a second, the real you would emerge dimmer and colder – gray from the years of dwelling in the pit falls of your own drama.

You love drama.

The chance to feel in a way that is controlled.

You need control.

To control me.

To control her.

To control every situation but your stupid little life.

Napoleon syndrome making you step on others to feel big. To feel like the man.

To hear “daddy” off the lips of obligation rather than from the slip of ecstasy.

You’re a joke.

Needing a girl on the back of your jet ski, because you can’t stand to see one on her own.

On the brink of dying without the touch from unknowing hands of tenderness from your latest conquest.

I hurt you?

Yeah.

And I did everything to make it right.

And maybe it was too late and maybe I stayed too long.

Thinking that growth was still possible in a dead field.

But you shone a light that resembled the sun so closely, it felt like life were still possible.

But on the other side of reflection I’m sure the garden was not dead. You just refuse for me to grow there.

Stay a seed. Become a caterpillar and you’ll show me how to fly.

A lesson never taught, because then I might fly away. To lands with actual light and love and fucking accountability.

Look at you.

Here.

Reading this post.

Still desiring to know me and what I think.

Are you not embarrassed?

Are you already dead?

In my DMs with every bit of normalcy and treachery you can drum up without the utterance of one I’m sorry.

Not one moment to think of someone else.

To acknowledge the love that you carry.

Well, here’s my declaration.

We’re done here.