I know we agreed to not do the whole communication thing, but I've got a problem. That thing you left me. I can't keep it anymore. I tried to handle it on my own, you know, maturely, but who are we kidding? We both know I'm not mature.
I hid it in my desk drawer for a while, way in the back, out of sight and in the dark, but it kept popping up at the wrong times: digging for a couple bucks to tip the delivery guy or fishing for a condom in the dark—awkward.
Out in the open it's too flammable. I had it on my shelf and came home to find my journals burning, the pages leaping into the air like perfect carbon souls floating up to heaven. It ruined three pairs of pants, six shirts, all my underwear, twelve of my fourteen photographs, and my old leather armchair, the one you thought smelled like rotting. The other night it set Neil Young and a harvest moon on fire, and if it hadn't been raining out, I don't know what would have happened.
I tried to give it away to the Salvation Army, but they were overstocked as it was, and the clerk actually talked me into taking home a few more: an ex husband, a great grandmother, and a high school football coach who wouldn't stop blowing his whistle. I mailed all these and yours to random addresses I took off the internet, and though the ex, the grandma, and the balding asshole with the whistle were apparently well received, yours came back with a rather rude note threatening legal action.
I buried it, and got filthy when I dug it up. I tore it to pieces, and spent an entire afternoon gluing shards back together. I swallowed it whole, and—I'll spare you the details of my subsequent indigestion and irregular bowel movements. I drowned it, smoked it, even tried to shoot it. But no, no, and especially no.
So tell me, what the hell do I do with this you in my head? I wish you'd come replace it with flesh and hot breaths, pouted lips and tangles of hair. Wish you'd come steal it from my mouth with your tongue. Slowly. Delicately at first. Testing until you have it by the root and then rip it out like a bad tooth.
Sorry. I shouldn't write those things what with your boyfriend and all. But the dentist did pull a bad tooth today and I'm still a little high from the nitrous, if it's any excuse. When I got home your memory was writing on the walls with its feces. It took a shit on my comforter, rubbed it into my pillow, and then composed poetry on my walls. Can you fucking believe that? Poetry.
I'm running out of clothing, I'm dealing with a possible lawsuit, I live with a constant fire hazard, and I'm now at the mercy of a rampant fecal poet. Please, please come and take it away. I'll pay. I'll beg and demean myself even more than all this. I'll—whatever it takes. Okay?
So, on the off chance you actually read this, get back to me ASAP?
About the author:
Jais Brohinsky was last seen wandering in Brooklyn, NY. Any information regarding his whereabouts or leading to his capture should be immediately sent to email@example.com.
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