Hate Mail
There was this boi that I loved once. I threw away a lover, a friend, a loser, or so he called himself for this boi. I passed up good ones, loyal ones, decent ones all in the name of love. I thought that his way was better than the others. I thought he was better than the others. I thought what he said was true. When he first saw me he feared me. Feared I'd tear him to shreds for I was the gothgirl. The funny thing is, now I will. Now I am strong enough, now I do not fear. The only things I fear are the demons in my house. They chase my feet, they open doors. But that boi. He ruined so much. He made me so angry I'd cry. He'd make me so sad I'd cry. I'd write pages and pages. I'd send him pages and pages. It finally took him tearing my heart out, and making me want to quit for us to end. Now we're apart and he doesn't realize what he does. Forgive them father, for they know not what they do. He points his fucking finger. He plays the martyr, while behind the scenes he rapes and pillages just as badly as those whom he pointed his finger at. His sins are just as deep as ours. His lies are just as deadly a venom as ours. But we are strong. We have armies. We have knives, guns, and angry red heads. Once, an ex lover who I miss greatly, who sometimes I wonder how they'd fit in my arms because I love him...her...
He writes stories. She writes stories, she writes them to cut down those who have hurt her. She writes up there truths and throws them in their faces violently, painfully. She unmasks them and makes them see the horror. All the men of this world. She is the defender of women, and she makes them see. He sits and watches all of this meloncholy like, my ex lover...who was never mine. Who I wanted to be mine. So I could for one night hold them. But from him I have learned. From her I have learned.
So I want this boi. I want his head on a platter. I want his beautiful pout painted on beautiful lips sliced open and bleeding. I want to tie him down and hurt him. To throw him into corners like he did me. Every mental corner, every hidden place in his mind. I want him to chant hate mantras to himself every night for being a faggot, for being stupid, for being mean to me, for manipulating me, for wanting to be a mother instead of a friend. I want him to chant in his head. I want him to wallow in pessimism. I want him to know how I feel. I want ever knife slice to remind him of an evil performed. If not to me, to some girl he's lying to. To some girl whose pants he's thought of getting into. I want him to bleed out his evils into a cup and feed on them.
And maybe this is sick, and maybe this is rambling, but I am so angry I am sick. Let me go vomit out the bottomless vast in my empty bowels.
-your
emily
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