Thu, 19 May 2005

the things i’ve caused (three)
I read the letter, searching for weaknesses, looking for ways to make my words more effective. This was to be the last thing I ever said to her, my final statement, and I wanted the words to hurt her so much, to cripple and blind her, to lead to months of unconsolable crying on her bed and binge drinking and wrist slashing. I wanted her to know and understand all the horrible things she had done to me and never given a second thought to, expectant that the world would once again change to suit her whim, heal its wounds once her back was turned. I still thought I was a writer, and I thought that if I have learned anything, if I have any ability with the word, then let this letter be the sum of my powers. Let this letter kill her.

I saw her two weeks later at a bookstore, and she greeted me as though we were still the best of friends, and laughed about how great the letter was, how she read it over the phone to people she knew in fits of laughter. You were always so funny like that, she said, smiling, oblivious.

That’s when I stopped writing.
(12:26.05.19.2005) [/scrytch] #