by Laura Roberts
I don’t know what happened between us. I guess you were tired of me and ready to move on, but I just wish you had told me that. I can’t seem to move anymore. I don’t know why I am I writing you a letter, when I know how you’ll respond. Every letter you sent was just obscure lyrics for some song that I wasn’t a part of. And I had to try so hard just to say the right thing. I was so fucking worried about saying the right thing. There were no right things. Words don’t make a relationship. Interests don’t even make a fucking relationship. There are no relationships. Just reaching out for the burners. And when they aren’t too hot, you can hold on. What the fuck is wrong with me. I hate words. Fucking words just written to mean nothing. Nigger. Nigger. NIGGER. You like that. It means something for you to say it because its offensive. It has meaning. Because nothing has meaning. Even NIGGER doesn’t have meaning. You know that right? The meaning is death. The final art. The last heaving breath is your last fucking song, and it sounds the same for everyone. I don’t care for your body. It wasn’t attractive. Frankly. Neither was mine, but at least it was thin. No, your attraction is the mystique you create. Carrying a flask of whiskey, collecting obscure records, your slouched walk that kept out the rest of the world, your accent. You talked about things I didn’t care about, but I listened. I listened so fucking hard, because I loved your voice. And I loved when you said you wanted me. Even though you really didn’t want me. I don’t think I believe that sex hurts you. Some fucking sick ploy for virgins. I don’t think you know pain. People like you are pain. Bring pain. Sometimes I wish you had died, so I wouldn’t have to google you. I’d know you had stopped. Forever. Suspended in January underneath me and huffing and puffing, while I feel nothing. I want to crush you. Grind the heel of my palm into your wheezing head and watch your stomach swell and pop. But really I hope you’re doing fine, you know. The little cunt inside me has to say things like that, because I’m polite and good. I’m so fucking GOOOOOOOOOD that I wish you well. What a cunt.
Laura Roberts lives like a hermit in foothills of the Appalachian mountains. The last thing she purchased were boots that looked like Dr. Martens, but weren't.