Dear Mail Recipient,
Greetings. This is your mail carrier. Long time deliverer, first time writer. Oh, that is such a cliché. Look at me, tongue tied. It’s such a shame. There are so many things I wish I could tell you. That I could just walk right up to and say. But, we both know that will never happen. The restraining order won’t allow it. When one inch feels like I’m a world away from you, you can only imagine what 50 yards feels like. I’ll make it easy for you- it feels like some number of worlds away that if I actually took the time to do the math out, I’m sure would be a lot. So, amount of worlds away it feels like: a lot.
I miss your hair. I miss your ass. I miss your smell (like fresh baked cookies, lady speed stick and, I wanna say, an earthy smell…) I miss getting up early in the morning, morning wood in full effect, walking into your ground floor room, and poking you with a stick (not a euphemism for my morning wood) until you woke up and I could poke you with my stick (a euphemism for my morning wood).
I miss the sound of the crane backing up to the house for your periodic visits to Jerry Springer. I miss giving you baths with a rag on a stick, and sometimes putting the rag on my stick, if you know what I’m saying. (I’m saying I used my penis as a towel rack). I miss the fact that I could have sex with literally ANY part of your body because the numerous fat folds and constant sweating created a million little pseudo-vaginas. I miss exploring your smoking hot (temperature-wise) body. I miss the million little things you used to do and not do. Not do more often than do, if I hadn’t made this one hundred percent clear already you are morbidly obese and thus can’t really do anything. Seriously, you’re like the mom from Gilbert Grape. But, I dig it, baby. And one day just like Gilbert Grape, I will be honored to burn down the house around you.
To quote the bard, and by “bard” I mean the eternal songs of NSYNC, “I want you back, baby. Oh yeah.” And with that in mind, I have written you a poem.
Your hair is like soft angel wings
Your back is a mountain range
You let me put it anywhere I want to
But all I really want is you
Is it because his penis is bigger than mine?
I was going for free form poetry. Your panties melted yet? Even if they’re not, they will be soon…I just lit the house on fire.
My Heart Will Always Be Yours,
P.S. Please stop sleeping with that guy I deliver mail to.
P.P.S. See you in Hell, you syphilis ridden, bitch!