Dear Lover,
For the love of whatever god you insist on worshiping, quit calling me. The reason for your persistence lies as thin as mountain airs. You’re transparent, so I see through you. I know you don’t care about my head or heart or any of the secrets I keep in either place. No, I don’t want ice cream, I can buy it myself. And fuck that dusty affection you keep locked in the attic on the uppermost shelf.
I have a single request for you: appear when masturbation fails at its magic trick. Read the label, “dick, not company.” I’m not your stereotypical southern girl. I don’t want to converse with you or offer you sweet tea. Just lay down and give it to me.
What history have you known? You never tell stories that I can’t wait to retell to friends and family or to write frantically in a scribble in my diary. I have no fear of losing you. You’re mass produced and hysterically replaceable.
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