if you want to die *******, alone, and angry at the world,
be my ******* guest.
but don’t act like no one ever tried to help you or wanted you there.

stop soaking in your misery and cowardice, and realize your place in the world
you are not special
and you are hurting me.
and you are ignoring, foregoing the efforts of everyone trying to catch you while you’re falling-
preferring to land scissors-first
and cut a heart shaped hole
in the bodies of the people
that actually spent time listening to your *******.

you are a coward.
and i hope that the second before you die,
you get a moment of clarity
that shows you just how much of a ****-up you truly are
not the ****-up you paint yourself to be:
as a hopeless, lost, wandering soul, addicted to ****** and feeling like you don’t belong;
no.
because that would be lying to yourself still.

you’re a coward, greg.
hiding behind false coping mechanisms and masochistic, macho-man monumental mentalities,
relying on your grandson
and your daughter
to pick up the pieces and shards of your life.

sometimes, i wonder if this is what my mother saw in you when she was my age,
when you’d come home ****-drunk and blasted.
and i wonder if this is why you loved me so much when i was younger,
showering me with gifts and love and praise
because i looked at you with pure eyes
and never tried to see beneath.
and i wonder
if this is why i can’t be disgusted with you to your face.
even though you are a sad, pitiful, revolting man,
i want to make you feel purified;
i want to give you but a single moment of happiness,
you walking dead man.

your death trembles before you
as you sneer across the street
at people who actually bring themselves to ask for help
waiving a cardboard flag on a street corner,
wishing “god bless”.

the name of religion inflames your tongue and
sometimes i wonder if it’s because you belong in hell?

i’ll never forget the day a stranger,
equally spun in his own narcissism, told you “you are a reminder of everything i do not want to be.”
i couldn’t look at you, greg.
because that man said everything that deserved to be told,
and you looked at him
and called him
a “******* *****”.

why do i put up with it, greg?
what made you deserving of my forgiveness, absolvement from your terrible lines?
why did i forgive you
for all the constant poking and prodding,
never learning that what you were pushing into place would be your own demise?

you pulled your headstone behind you for the world to see
making sure that everyone knew you wouldn’t be here much longer

i can’t tell you the amount of times i wished for you to already be dead.

i say this in pity
the same pity that brings people to put down a suffering dog.
i love you, greg, but enough is ******* enough.

and when you die
i can’t tell you who will be there,
but i can tell you that i update your eulogy every time that i see you,
so it can most accurately and near completely cover up your war crimes.
you will be forgiven in death, greg
because most people can’t bring themselves to hate the dead.
but know that in my mind
i will be honest with you,
an honesty that you could never begin to appreciate,
one that you would never attempt to understand.

i hope you find rest in your death, greg.
i hope it finally shuts your mouth,
so you can open your ears for once
and listen to all the things
i have prepared to say about you.