i'm addicted to destruction, i guess.
wait, let me start over-
i found your journal leaking semi-formed ideas and delirious rants
vaguely shaping your various existential crises
and i wanted to laugh at sharp word, misspelled for dramatic effect;
they never did sound as sweet spilling from your lips like a discordant tangle of noise and statick as they did in the black ink of your low scrawl,
wide valleys stretching between the peaks and lines of your letters like the invisible, insurmountable mountain ranges that kept you away from the rest of the world that your letters run parallel to.
you ran parallel, and we were tangent, meeting once before parting forever.
holding on ***** up the big picture, and boy oh boy, did we set fire to this forest.
the birds have left and the deer have gone; i don’t think anything can grow here again.
but i’m trying not to blame you for what you had to do to survive
but it’s difficult when you ******* tore me open, and that’s not a figure of speech.
it’s not easy to excuse a dragon when you can still feel their breath misting your neck, a fine peppering of acid directly from their mouth,
turning someone into art doesn’t erase your guilt.
yeah, i’m still a belligerent idiot, but you are still a ******.
by the way, a memo from my ******: you’re not seven inches.
you were there, i was there. then i ran and i was gone and then he found me and brought me home with him and now i am safe and you are alone