To WMD

TO WMD-


This is the last letter I’ll ever write to you, I hope.

God, I hope.

You really had me there, for a minute. From your blonde hair to your fucked-up blue eyes to your gangly legs and huge feet, you had me. I wanted you to have me.

You did. Over and over again.

In her bed. While she was in the shower.

It was easy for me to hang my “best-friend” hat on the back of the door while you fucked the living shit out of me with your big, hard cock.

Across her desk. On her rug.

You fucked my mind, you fucked my body, you fucked my friendship, you fucked my outlook on people, on culture, on all men everywhere.

You fucked me to pieces and then you fucked my pieces.

In her house. In front of her TV.

I have to remind myself of the bad shit periodically; if I don’t the shit I miss becomes succinct and I want to drop you a line, see how you’re doing.

Hear your voice, let you fuck my life some more.

Every month I remember, my scarred insides remember—
That you Never Really Cared, you were fucking everybody’s life.

For all I know you’re still fucking HERS. Most likely someone else’s too, if I know you.

Underneath her windows, while her cats watch from the foot of her bed.

She probably hates me more than I ever could myself.

All ‘cause I fucked you.

So fuck you.

I hope you die alone.