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Out of anger knowing no bounds I wish I could write the shit out of you. Wring you out with words till you’re dry of blood and breath. Every letter I write spells the end of you, each word contributing to the negative that, once developed, reveals your new non-existence that’s my sole doing.

I’m so angry I won’t raise a single muscle except to write. The pen is mightier than the sword. You’re fucking right it is.

I won’t even picture the ink flowing out of my pen as your blood draining life out of you – no, what’s going to be your death is only my words and no relative thereof.

I don’t know what to believe in anymore, least of all who to believe in. Your words – yes, your words – are the hook I hang my coat on, only to discover when I go to leave that you’re gone, the hook’s gone, and of course my coat’s gone. I’m left not only alone but cold and shivering in the fucking rain to fend for myself where only hours ago I thought I had security assurance and support. Worst of all, tomorrow I’ll reconcile myself after a night of torture and tears and trust you and hang my coat again…

It stops here. My words will stop it here. I might break the pen because I’m so angry but that won’t signify the death of you. My words alone – not how forcefully I write them, whether I tear through the paper, whether I leave the pen to the paper a little too long so it blots – nothing but my fucking words will end you. No analogies or metaphors. Only words fatally unquenchable as my thirst for vengeance.

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