To whomst the contents of this electronic, very bland, correspondence may concern:
“Whomst” is not a word.
Not necessarily.
But it is necessary to tell you the places that we used to go where it was a word, well, they’re brighter now.
And the non-word is quite prevalent in my dictionary.
Brighter now.
More vibrant.
Devoid of your shitty attitude. Oof. Too brash? fuck you, snowflake. I can’t remember the last time I said “sorry” and meant it.
That’s what the people on my side are supposed to call the people on your side, right? Snowflakes?
Funny how in a country where everyone is free to pursue whatever, whichever, whenever with whoever,
we choose to peruse a single side that the partisan partition falls between like a goddamn wigwam.
Knocking heads into uTtEr wOkEfUlNeSs.
I remember the days melting into one psychedelic jelly tape of muscle spasms, Ocean Lights, and sad stories.
Filling pages with graphite doodles instead of inked scribbles before the escorts got home. Staying up listening to your favorite music, because that’s what was going to help us get through the night. When I sweat so much that my drawings smeared onto my face like some kind of twisted, psychedelic warpaint. I thought I was Van Gough. But bigger, and with both ears.
At that point you shouldn’t look in the mirror though, lest ye glitch and slip into awareness. I did. And I was no longer afraid of myself. I was terrifying. I liked it that way.
I liked it that way.
Because that meant that when you said you were in love with me, that you meant it.
On the streets of that side of town that we stayed up to watch the sunrise in.
I couldn’t sleep, obviously. When you’re iN lOvE such things are menial. So Instead I locked myself out, walked to breakfast, noticed how green the trees were, how crisp the day was, like it had waited for me to arrive and it had vacuumed, put the clean dishes away AND waxed my car.
You cried in the street when you kissed me.
Later. A month or two. I’m railing lines of jet-fuel, and standing in front of a mirror holding an axe. Instead of a B&E and Murder in the Second degree, I load your shit into my hatchback
and a two-man, two-hour job is cut all the way in half when I dump your writing desk in his driveway.
Look at me, waxing poetic.
I wish you longevity, dullness, complacency, conformity, and all of the other things you never thought you’d be, but were set up for anyway.
I wish you all the substances, and none of the inspiration.
I have to admit it, I’ll never forget you.
I have to admit it, you were never The Raven.
You won’t be missed. Not anymore.
– The Wolf
