Anger Boiled Over

I am not afraid; you no longer scare me. Once so terrified of you, I spent hours scouring the Internet desperately trying to find your new address, license plate number, and make and model of your latest car.

Not anymore.

You’ve had your way with my emotions for the last time. Though not physically raped, the spiritual and emotional rape you thrust upon me was debilitating. I know you are now alone, bitter, angry, and self-destructive. Try as I might to “take the higher road” and not allow your pain to bring me satisfaction, it does. I am elated to know milestone occasions in your life have come and gone with none of the recognition I once would’ve showered you with. I almost feel ashamed for the pleasure it brings me knowing that you spend your evenings alone; numbing the pain of your poor choices, isolated from everyone who once cared for you. Almost.

I am better than these feelings and know I should pity you. I don’t. You didn’t pity me when you saturated my life with gasoline and threw a match on it, watching the fire burn until only ashes remained. You didn’t pity me when I loved you with my whole self and yearned for your love so badly that I sacrificed my self-worth, voiding myself of all dignity.

For you I have many wishes. I wish I could wish you well. I wish I could wish you recovery, repaired relationships, and mended wounds. I can’t. Instead, for you I wish the dark, lonely nights last agonizingly long. For you I wish images of memories and moments passed haunt you. For you I wish there is nothing strong enough to numb the realization of the man you are, who you could’ve been, and who you’ll never be.

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