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Tuesday August 08th 2006, 11:53 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

Wife,

You just donít know, and you just donít care. The pain and torment eat away at my thoughts. I have become a masochistic carnivore and I donít know how to feed this beast, besides by letting it destroy me. There were moments when I thought I had this monster tamed. Laughter and dance have always been able to turn the most hideous of creatures into the most docile of pets Ė but not anymore. Deeper and deeper I travel into the depths of its belly without any chance or hope or rescue. The irony of my own demise is that I will slay the monster with one last breath of air. Itís a gift that I will give myself, the power to kill the beast that is killing me. But there will be no reciprocation to this final and most secret of presents. But, what do you care anyway? Why should you care? After all, you stopped caring for me a long time ago. Your life will go on, as it always has, while my life will end. Itís sad to think of my own death, but I know no other options. Sadness is a temporal emotion, and will go away in Time. However, I will not bring myself to this task just yet. After all, I still have the life in me to endure this suffering; otherwise I wouldnít be here, in this coffee shop, writing to you. You are most likely at work today, helping poor animals, laughing with your co-workers. Iím jealous of you Mindy. But youíll never hear those words from my mouth (ever again). When you get home tonight, who will be sleeping in your bed dear wife? It doesnít matter to me anymore. Sleep with whomever you want; you could perform the most explicit acts in our apartment and it wouldnít matter. You are lost to me, a ghost in my mind. The destruction of myself has nothing to do with you anymore. This pain is my pain; this torment is my torment. But like I said, you just donít know. Youíll never know.

Regards,

me.

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