Letter's to an Angel
Hell
...;
My brother had a goose, like a duck, but not.
It was a goose. He named it Pimple. Remember it?
Like, as in, goose-pimple. Goose-bump. Shiver. Convulsion. Shake. Quiver.
I hated that goose.
Because I couldn't look at it and not think of you. Not in some weird animalistic sexual way. Just the thought of the shivers you gave me. Not shivers, rather, nervous shakes. I miss the nervous shakes. I miss the way it hurt. The way it killed me to think that I had you first.
I force my smiles now, I can't hide from anyone. Not even that fucking goose. My brother is such a sentimental fuck. I try to tell him to get rid of it - but he's attached to that fucking duck.
Kinda like I'm attached to you. You, or rather your memory. You can't be attached to something that isn't there.
There's still teeth marks in the headboard. Mum asked me to sand them out and re-varnish it - I refuse.
I refuse.
Because... I refuse to let go of you.
That grey t-shirt you left under my bed still hasn't been washed. It's been, what, 3 years? There's 3 years worth of my tears soaked through that material. The material that touched your skin, that billowed weightlessly around your chest, that held onto you more often than I could.
Now I fucking want to cut it up.
I want to rip it to shreds. Like my hands, my stomach, my arms, my legs; I could hear the rippled flesh screaming at me as I cut deeper. Deeper. Still no blood. You made me empty.
Cutting up the shirt will achieve nothing.
I will just feel numb again, like I did when I burnt all your letters you wrote to me. I did it to spite you for leaving me. I did it to spite God for taking you away. I did it to spite the goosebumps raping my body as I read the words that your frail but skilled hand had formed.
Fucking duck.
...
My brother had a goose, like a duck, but not.
It was a goose. He named it Pimple. Remember it?
Like, as in, goose-pimple. Goose-bump. Shiver. Convulsion. Shake. Quiver.
I hated that goose.
Because I couldn't look at it and not think of you. Not in some weird animalistic sexual way. Just the thought of the shivers you gave me. Not shivers, rather, nervous shakes. I miss the nervous shakes. I miss the way it hurt. The way it killed me to think that I had you first.
I force my smiles now, I can't hide from anyone. Not even that fucking goose. My brother is such a sentimental fuck. I try to tell him to get rid of it - but he's attached to that fucking duck.
Kinda like I'm attached to you. You, or rather your memory. You can't be attached to something that isn't there.
There's still teeth marks in the headboard. Mum asked me to sand them out and re-varnish it - I refuse.
I refuse.
Because... I refuse to let go of you.
That grey t-shirt you left under my bed still hasn't been washed. It's been, what, 3 years? There's 3 years worth of my tears soaked through that material. The material that touched your skin, that billowed weightlessly around your chest, that held onto you more often than I could.
Now I fucking want to cut it up.
I want to rip it to shreds. Like my hands, my stomach, my arms, my legs; I could hear the rippled flesh screaming at me as I cut deeper. Deeper. Still no blood. You made me empty.
Cutting up the shirt will achieve nothing.
I will just feel numb again, like I did when I burnt all your letters you wrote to me. I did it to spite you for leaving me. I did it to spite God for taking you away. I did it to spite the goosebumps raping my body as I read the words that your frail but skilled hand had formed.
Fucking duck.
...