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CLOSE / Parnassiad

Peace and Other Stories

Fragments of a Formerly Active Sex Life

Angry Emo Love Letter
by Ozymandias Brown  /  non-fiction  /  14 Jul 2007

This will be the last letter I ever write.  If you don't want to read it, I don't blame you; I merely request then that you delete every email, and burn every word, of mine in your possession.

How much of love I learned from you!  How it hurts, because it gives you wings and makes you fly and then drops you, like Icarus, in midflight; how it is doomed.  There are parts of me that would deny you the satisfaction of knowing how hard I am bleeding -- though if you take satisfaction is such misery, you can go straight to hell.

And maybe you shall.  When this letter is finished, so too my care for your fate.

But for your eyes only, in the cursory two minutes you take before inevitably fucking off into whatever you do, I'd like to record the brief agony of my fickle heart, before it plunges surehandedly and without hesitation a knife into a darling for the first time.

The lesser part of me would love you at all costs, for always.  It is the same love I have for cigarettes, and twenty packs a day cannot satisfy its lust.  So with you:  I need to love you, to poison myself.  There is, however, only so much the body can take.  I will rid myself of the chains binding me to you, who bleeds me for sport.

I tried to be the best I could:  capacious of mind, generous of heart, forgiving of hands that know only to wound me.  I believed you knew what you did, then; now, so that the hurt will stop, I resign care for belief.  Say you love me all you want; tomorrow, your cries will fall on deaf ears.

I don't believe you to be the callous, thoughtless, shallow, rotted husk of an old priss my spleen tells me you are, and always have been; but I don't have the luxury of your blind and unquestioning faith.  I know you cower from your heart.  I know you'd rather send me the last word of our story of maligned and disappointed expectations on a post-it, than tell me to my face.  And if I can't make an irrational inductive leap from those behavioral patterns of yours, across the suicide canyon of faith in you, it is only because I tried to make it once and hit bottom.

What kills me is the ire you put in my ink, the way you goad me into spewing venom on paper like this.  If you ever looked at me, it was only to beautify yourself in my mirror.  And if ever I had beautiful dreams of you, it was because I had no idea who you were.

Congratulations!  You injected me with sulphur, so I could cure myself.  Think what you want:  one more page, and I will have put a stake through the leech of my feelings where your heart would be if you had one.

I created a monster.  What folly it was, to think my hands would touch someone warm; what lunacy, sheer lunacy, to believe the act was love!  You pass through the clean, well-ordered china shop of my heart like a malicious bull, and break everything.  And cleaning up the bloody mess gets more expensive every day.

If you've even read this far, I know it's not because you actually care.  You're just feeding whatever greedy bitch now begs for the tablescraps of your banqueted ego -- and if that sentence is difficult for you to understand, it's only because dogs don't know how to read.

Now, burn this letter, or tear it to pieces.  If you don't, the acid from my pen will corrode your whole miserable, pinheaded, tawdry little life.  You'll keep it to help a gunshot wound fester, so you can continue licking it and call it grooming.  And you won't see the wound at all.  Which, I must say, suits you.  I've seen you naked, so I know.   I should have thrown you out like a stray cur that day:  you're surely better to me dead, than alive.

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