Let me just start by saying that I don’t hate much in this world, but I sure hate you. You who ties me to my own bed with my favorite scarf and who dances carelessly around my room, your death infested body alighting on every wall in my room, leaving black spores of rot in the air, and you who, in the sandpaper screams you call a voice, refuses to stop singing the ruthless requiem that bounces relentlessly in my head every morning and night.
Tied to my bed I watch as your skeletal fingers touch a picture of my nephew, and as your song braids itself around sexual urges and strange acts of violence against an innocent five year-old boy.
I watch as you take a small pearl necklace my boyfriend gave me two years ago, and as the pearl turns rotten and crumbles to green dust in your odious hands. I watch as he leaves me for the last time, all because of you, and your sinful screeching at 2AM on a Monday morning.
You sing of the time he found me in the kitchen, hands bloody and raw, scrubbing furiously at every floor tile, determined to clean it before an imaginary illness destroyed our lives. How as I finished scrubbing that tile, the blood dripping from my knuckles splattered on the one I had just washed.
I lay in my bed, powerless to stop you from passing by my favorite stuffed animal, forcing me to take his infested body to the cleaners for the fifth time this week, even though he’s missing fur on parts of his body and his paws are split open from the constant bruisings and burns that are the cleansing process.
Your song twists and turns, asphyxiating every single area of my life. First you cripple my ability to think, you wreck my body, you tear the object of comfort I have used since I was twelve, you destroy the relationship I held for three years…
All that is left, is for your dance to complete its way through my room, to my bed, to my sheets, and if you still do not take my life, untie me and I shall do it myself.