Dear *****,

a quiet whimper as I shuffle under these sweat soaked covers. Fantasies of revenge, violent nostalgia. I have claimed this as my own, like a child, like a mistake. Breathing slowly, heart murmurs and crusty bedpans. You will die alone, here, and nowhere else. I am scrambling to your grave to spit on it. It is dark, very cold, moonless sky a blank document of time. Move like a maggot beneath a dead dog, to another surly town, in some chlorine scented dive bar. Your grotesque, chubby hands wrapped around a cold, aluminum beer can. Your only mode of comfort turned against you as the days grow warmer. It feels good now, it didn't before, but now it does. I beat you, that shallow illusion of pride rearing its head towards me. I am a human weapon, ready for any war not yet begun. Cowards are easy to meet, but hard to rid of. So now I walk through this junkyard alone, hostile, and ready for death. I am the shadow of your last nightmare, that instance of negative thought between you and your reflection. Toiling through the numbing tasks, sleeping through happy hour, these curiosities are at rest. Sometimes I lay alone here, and begin to concentrate on how much hatred my heart is consumed by. Like a guardian angel keeping me warm. These days bear no resemblance to the previous year. And alone we stare to the waiting sky, our time is endless. See me from on high, your pitiful existence below.

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