I'm writing this because I'll be gone in about two seconds. I've decided I've had enough: It was too much or maybe too little.
I'm prepared to hang myself with the umbilical cord of my self-hatred; it was a diary entry, I think. Oh, I'm dead anyway.
I am dead has such a nice wring to it, doesn't it? Feel like a ***** old dishrag, used up and withered. I wonder who will clean up my act.
I will lie in a playful position, akin to the Mannerists or Fuseli and the Renaissance men would look at me like I'm crazy for contorting smiles and stares in a happy niche of browning lungs.
The punchline always ends with your head in an oven. I'd imagine it'd explode, but it was not so. It's sad to know he didn't love you, but hey, we got poetry out of it, you know. How is he? Did you get your revenge?