Better left unsaid

Comments I wanted to leave today, but instead only spoke them aloud to mine own ears:

Your boozy discursives are more brilliant than my best when sober.

Maniacal one, I hate it that you have wonderful ideas but never, ever, not once, have followed through to completion.

Perhaps if you spent more time instilling solid values into your children rather than focusing on nail-painting, indulging their every desire and making fun of others, they wouldn't be such spoiled little bitches brats.

I used to think you were sensitive and bright, now I see you're nothing more than a pompous windbag.

Your words read like I imagine an LSD hallucination would look.

You move me. You touch me. I am a little bit in love with you, and I yearn.

Fuck You, I'm Glad You Are Dead

I'm glad you are dead. I wish you could come back to life and die again.

I hate you.

I never thought I could hate someone, but guess what? I can.

Everyone loved you, including me. Then I found out what you did.

How could you do that?

Your fat body has fed thousands of worms by now, and I'm happy for it, those worms will have served a purpose in this life, you on the other hand were vile.

When you clutched your chest and fell into your plate dead I hope the last thing you thought about before your mind went blank was what you did to my daughter and how miserable your actions were.

YOU are gone, but we still live here. We still think about your sick ass.

I wish I could believe in Hell, it would serve me well to think of you there, but I don't. I don't believe in much of anything anymore.

How can a man get off from a three year old girl? How? Why?

How could you have done that and not feel guilt? Did you really think she would ever forget? Your own granddaughter?

I was one of the first people to arrive at the hospital you were taken to. Your kids were too overcome to take care of anything, so was your wife. I still had your last name so everyone thought I was your family. I was left to handle your arrangements.

Funny how that worked out, isn't it?

Everyone thought it was so sweet when I bent in close to your face, my hair falling over your head in a neat little curtain. They all assumed I kissed you goodbye, but you and I know I spit in your gaping mouth.

When I went to the funeral home to preview their work, the morticians were horribly upset. Your obese and disgusting piggy body had sat too long before it was embalmed, they weren't able to position your hands into peaceful repose. I was though. I snapped your fingers so they lay flat. I like the way that felt. I like to imagine it hurt you.

She still hurts. She will always hurt. YOU did that to her.

I'm glad you are dead. I wish you could come back to life and die again.

Confession

Touched by all that love is
I draw closer toward you
Saddened by all that love is
I run from you

Surprised by all that love is
I remain alert in stillness
Hurt by all that love is
I yearn for tenderness

Defeated by all that love is
at the truthful mouth of the night
Forsaken by all that love is
I will grow toward you.

by Frantisek Halas (1901 - 1949)

Snap! (revisited)

Waiting for the snap because, I thought, a snap will be all I’ll sense; just a snap and then bright light, the roar of eternity steamrolling everything I am, was, will be. A split second and then all preceding moments dispersed like dust on an empty street, swept up from where each speck had gathered and sent spiraling into oblivion, beyond memory, beyond apprehension. A brief shadow brushed before the sun and then blown across the landscape, diffuse and insubstantial, swallowed up by time and lost forever.

Snap and then nothing else, not even a void.

What’s left is only that which you will perceive, whoever you are, however you announce yourself to be, whatever reason you have for being there. Whatever the snap was, you’ll see its result right away, standing in judgment of the aftermath while ignorant of the precursor. The silent destruction resonates only with the distance set between the instant of sight and a past made irrelevant by sound. It is only after the snap that you will ever know; where one ends, another begins, both disconnected and futile.

Before the snap it’s cold and bitter, the taste of just apple peels and nothing else. Jammed up and entirely committed but still gentle with the soft palate; everything gets counted, considered, contained, a lifetime drawn on the back of a matchbook. A tremulous finger twitches where one last decision will be made. Everything ends where will says, “Fuck it,” and determination is made that the snap is all there is left.

Wonderlust

As I sit here and I write the words I say to you, I know that I am false. My words speak of friendship and appreciation for all that you have shared with me, all that we have discussed, the bond that is still new yet seemingly strong and based on trust. Trust.

Would you still trust me if you knew you made me wet? Would you still tell me your sorrows or dreams or goals and thoughts if you knew I wanted to shove your cock so deep inside myself I scream from the thought?

I see you in my head. I have fucked you a hundred times in there.

Given the chance, what would I do? Would I? Could I?

My impression is that you are nice. I ruin nice. Nice gets in the way of lust, it fucks up a fantasy with emotion and loose ends, and I cannot be responsible for that...

Yet here I sit and still wonder, could I? Would I?

I honestly cannot answer that.