I am death

Hate letter to an ex-situationship

Wrote this last year with the intention of processing my feelings after a fucking loser guy wronged me. Last I heard about him he was balding and is still dating teenage girls.

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You can try with soap, bleach or your own spit. You can rub, rub, rub your hands together, brush them together until your knuckles bleed, until the calluses in between your fingers pop, red and sizzling. You can peel back your rosy skin, cut off your gooey flesh but I’ll still be there in the marrow of your bones. I am rot, I am mold, I am Death, I am a ghost.

I will never rest, I will haunt, haunt, hunt you down. With teeth sharp like silver blades, and a suit of armor over my soul. With claws like a panther’s, howling like a wolf. I am the beast you made. 

I will hover over your body, my dark shadow in contrast with your pale, bluish flesh, lit up by the moonlight. You’ll breathe, your chest will move slowly up and down. I will hold a silver ax, it will lean against my dark frame. And then I’ll hit. An eye for an eye, or whatever they say.  I am rot, I am mold, I am Death, I am a ghost.

It’s easy to put on a sickly sweet perfume to cover the stench, but once the sour smell of rotten meat starts to push through, you’ll have nowhere to hide. The wet rot will eat away at your flesh and they will see it, they will all see who you truly are. 

And I’ll warn you now, since I feel it’s my duty, once the wolves catch a whiff there’s no turning back, no apology suffices. You can try to run, and you will, but they’ll catch you, they’ll be there, under the bed, inside the closet, outside your window when it’s dark at night, always ready to sink their teeth, to make you bleed.  I am rot, I am mold, I am Death, I am a ghost.

You might be holding all the aces, but I choose the game we play.  I am rot, I am mold, I am Death, I am a ghost, I am a calculated killer, cold blooded like a crocodile or like you.