One day I’m going to write a book about you.
One day you’re going to read my words and feel a jolt of anxiousness and fear as I pour your secrets and faults on each page. You’re going to retch up breakfast as I confess your sins. You’re going to cry as I retell your trauma for your friends. You’re going to scream as I reveal each and every secret I’ve ever held inside for you.
One of these days you’re going to be holding hands with a woman you claim to love, one you figured that you couldn’t do without, then you two will see my name on book covers displayed on busses and billboards and posters of a bookstore. You’ll even see ads on your Facebook, my name big and bold and hard for you to escape.
Your lover is going to ask what’s wrong. She going to want to know why you’re so green in the face and sweaty all over. She may hold you, or believe you when you say you’re alright. You won’t be, because you always knew what I was capable of.
Then you’ll read it, and weep, and retch, and then in hopes of feeling in control you burn it. Hopefully you rip it apart and make art from the ashes even though it’ll be too late to wash away the truth. And your lover, oh that poor dumb girl, is going to believe you when you say I was the one full of lies. I was jealous, and weak, and sensitive, and even crazy. You’ll take a true story and bend it to your will. That girl will believe you, because she was taught to be loyal to her men and damn the wise words of the women before her. She’s learned that women are competition instead of companions. Shes learned love from tbe mistales of others instead of from the successes.
I pray she sees through your lies. I pray that after you cum and leave her fending for herself sexually, you fall asleep next to her. Instead of pulling out the toy she’s known to be a better lover, she will pull out my book and soak up my words about you.
In the light of the moon, she’ll bite her lip softly and devour each chapter like a tall glass of ice cold water. The following days you’ll speak of me, belittling me, degrading me with your words that are only half as good as mines. She’ll scoff. You won’t notice, because you never do. You never pay attention to women past their looks. You kiss their necks for your pleasure, you hold their hands for the impression you’ll give everyone else. You don’t care, and now she knows. Now they all know.
One day I’ll write a book about you and watch you burn. One day the tales of your lies, sorrow, and abuse will be absorbed by all the women you’ve hurt and have yet to hurt. One day becauze of me someone will hurt you. I’ll teach you a lesson with my words. Because of me you’ll live on forever, known as the piece of shit you are.