I hope you know you are a rapist. I hope you know that you have crippled me into a type of addiction that only serves to dismember. I hope you know that I am better off without your infection. I hope you know that what you have done to me is only temporary.

But it’s not. I have nightmares about your influence. I pray that your visage will finally go away. You slid me into you, and you have lived your life with a part of me. What of you do I harbor? What can I set fire to without the embers falling upon my corpse? I hope you know that you raped me.

I am better without you. This fact is true. I have found someone who respects my autonomy and does not question my benevolence. But what about you? I fantasize giving you $100 while you busk only to slit your throat while you cower behind the money. I hope you die. I hope you die slowly. I hope you die a painful death at my hand; holding the switchblade that has punctured your throat. I believe that I will have the sexual satisfaction that you failed to achieve through your pathetic performance as a partner. But I know that I will feel nothing.

Because that is what you are. I wrote this poem today thinking about you. I hope you see it.

I see nothing when interrupted by your presence.

How the particles ripple away to inhabit the cracks you do not possess.

Tantrum of a man vibrating at a blind frequency.

Undectable by precision, but assumed nonexistent.

Unworthy discovery.

Nothing to report.

Small death.

Little hole.

Worm scraps.

To be not.

I hope you know you are a rapist.

The nightmares that fill my nights are not because of you. I have new anxieties to worry about, and you are the least of them. When I think of you I have nothing but hatred and lethargy. I am so tired that this facilme of suffering is only endured by me. I know that you suffer. But that suffering is not enough. I want to rip-tear chord and chop-suey your insides so that you never spew the hatred that you have given me. Bite the hand that feeds you? You sodomized the vessel that gave you life. And I want nothing to do with it.

You are a rapist. I was the one to give you reassurance once you saw that mirror glow within my eyes when you took things too far. I was the one to transgress into the ground like a dying lily when you told me that “it’s fucked up” that I had an opinion of how things went down.

I’m not playing a character here. I’m not just writing to write. This is my statement that you are a rapist, and that you are nothing more. You have no authority or clout to give you wings. You are nothing, and you will continue to be nothing. I hope that I haunt you. That is the best of consequences. I hope I occupy your mind while you put the next victim through the wringer. I understand your worthlessness, and I understand that you were trying to warn me at every pass of how pathetic you really are. Is it my fault that I did not believe how weak you really were? Is it my fault that at every chance that you could you reminded me of your putrification? A stain of pus, only to exhume my expectations of something that cannot and will not be so evil? Am I a fool? I cannot hear your attempts at communication. I called you on a whim, because I wanted to make you suffer, but could not stand the sound of your voice. How much power do you still have over me?

You raped me. You raped me. You raped me. I don’t give a fuck what you think happened that night, and I don’t care about the logical fallacies you employed to preserve the perverse identity you keep intact. You have always been a rapist. And the only sympathy I have is for your next victim. I just wish it was me.

What suffering could I have prevented if we were still together? I can take it. I can take it. I can take it. I’m not sure that anybody else could have understood the amount of abuse you put me through. What sorry sack of shit are you whipping to make yourself seem mildly competent? I hope that they are not propagandized enough to see the true harm that you have caused. What’s the fucking point?

I hope that I haunt you, but who the fuck are you? You drugged me into submission to understand your ambivalence to decay and you only served to be. That’s all you were. Something that was there. Nothing beneficial, nothing to write about, not anything to be proud of. You took your heart out as an act of complacency, while I took mine out as an act of vulnerability. You raped me. You raped me. You raped me.

Was it for my own good? To be seeped into this trencher of terror? Was I too happy? Was I too trusting? Was I willing to forgoe your attempts at social justice and not apply that same logic to my own situation? No. I was raped. And you raped me.

I hope that you do not sleep at night. I hope that every leaf left upon the ground that crackles does not fill you with childish delight but only serves to resemble the lives that you have made fragile and able to break. You are nothing to me. I do not know how I would react to the presence of anti-matter. I would add value and laugh your existence away. Meaning: I would give you $10 while you play those shitty ukulele solos and piss in your face. I know this is justified. Your friends told me so. If they are still even your friends to begin with.

My fantasies are filled with your death. Pulling the tombstone out of the ground so I can show and tell with my friends, and give warning to those who will trespass. I know that my path is righteous, because I do not intend to cause harm. That deep stomach drop you feel when you hear my name will not be the last. I hope everyone you meet that has a 2-syllable name makes your heart drop into your stomach. What a fucking waste. What fucking insolence. The proof that you are allowed to exist makes me doubt a higher power. The christ-gaze that harbors my vision only ignores the lowly. The unworthy to live. I find so much validation from the man on the side of the street begging for life-fulfilling sustenance but when I look at you? If given the opportunity, I would spit on that grave. I know you will die soon, and I pray for the day to be closer and closer. Your existence only serves to bereave. To dismantle. To cut a part and rape.

Let’s not forget; you are a rapist. I am not sure that you were born one, but I know that you are one. What a crock of shit that you spew when you talk about how your people have been oppressed as if you do not participate in that oppression. You are a rapist. The lowest of the low.

I do not want your last memories to be of me. I do not want you to think about me. I want you to be haunted by the actions that you have perpetrated. When you find yourself gushing from the neck wound that some hero has performed, I hope you think of your lack. I hope you think of everything that you could not have done. You were given every opportunity to be a beacon of light, but you wallowed away in a darkness of your own creation. You are fucking pathetic. You are a rapist. And when you die, the world will be better off. Fucking cunt.

But I am above such scrutiny. I cannot fathom the geopolitics that need to be performed when you are a rapist. I find solidarity in all that is alive that has not raped. And contrary to popular belief there are more non-rapists than rapists. Can you imagine that? You? A minority? I know you take such pride in being a minority that I fear that this will give you empowerment. But you are a piece of shit. Literally. You are not a full piece of shit, as that would give you too much power. You are just a piece. Nothing to report. Small death.

I hope you know you are a rapist. In all honesty, I hope you improve. I hope you become more than just a rapist. But for now, that is all you are. You piece of fucking shit.