What I Would Say

Part of me hates you, hates you for adding complexity to the simple process of death. The thought of your existence is so foreign that I wonder if your corner of the coffin weighed more heavily upon your heart or if my mother tasted like tears and death when you kissed her in front of me. Did you recognize the bottle of scotch that you so carefully caressed in prolonged innuendo from their first uncertain Christmas together? Are you pleased to know that it has symbolically waited to touch only your lips again?

Because of you, I have lost what little faith I had in marriage. True love is only for old, fat fools who die in car crashes. Lust and selfishness, those are sleek and modern. Sangria red like the new car that takes my mother to your Nashville bed.

Now onto another point that I must address. This episode has thrown into light the fact that I have no morals, boundaries, or definition. I have become merely a sponge that absorbs these experiences and then attempts to ghost understanding into people through watered-down versions of myself.

Thank you for making grief an outpatient procedure. “Truth enlightens the mind but does not always bring happiness to the heart.” And “truth will out,” right? Therefore, I must say, “Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love.”