I am sitting in a blue room—it might be the color it is
painted, or the room might be hued, owing to my presence.
I am not sure which it is, for I am very much color-blind,
and much too arrogant to admit guilt for the spaces I ruin.
That is why I must now write you this letter. To tell you why
this relationship is headed for the wheelie bin.
Because I am repulsed by the face that looks back at me in
the mirror. Because I am a blinding sand to your sultry flame.
Because I have heard your heart sulk and weep when I rest
my head upon your breasts. Because the roses in your
garden deadhead bloom when they inhale my CO2.
Because hell burns gently, and the devil now has a need for
quilts. Because your happiness saddens me. Because your
sadness saddens me. Because my happiness saddens me.
Because my sadness coats my tongue with sheets of nectar. Because our
happinesses feel like a long session of waterboarding. Because our
sadnesses feel like the orgasms of a thousand geysers. Because I
love that which is bad and rotten, and not that which is
good and wholesome. Because I am the termite in your
cottage—and before long, I shall consume all your clapboards.



Photo by Eli Kaplan-Wildmann on Unsplash