A Note From My Mail Carrier

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,

R-Witz


P.S. Please stop sleeping with that guy I deliver mail to.

P.P.S. See you in Hell, you syphilis ridden, bitch!