On Leaving a Wife who Won’t Miss You

You are a stupid, inconsiderate, delusional fuck and I hope you get by a bus in a greyhound parking lot and I hope you lay there, helpless, while 16 more buses run you over and I hope you survive every one but the last.

I hope it hurts worse than anything you’ve ever felt.

I hope every woman you think you might have the capacity to love reminds you of me, only in that they’re not quite as good as what you had. I hope you realize that I was the closest thing you would ever have to happiness and I hope you realize you fucking blew it. I hope you realize that I could, and would have given you more than you had ever dreamed of, had you just been anything more than a shitty replica, fashioned into the shape of man by someone who’s never met one

I hope the sound of my laugh stirs the withered and shattered chunks of what might have been a heart around in your chest. I hope it pulverizes them until they are nothing but sharp dust and I hope speaking my name makes you cough it out until your gums are bloody and I hope you do it on purpose because that taste is all you have left to remind you of me.

I hope the acid in my voice is enough to burn you through the telephone and I hope it disfigures you in ways that only you and I can see.