letters to my ex

them, approximately

dear you,

if monet and kahlo ever went on a date then guilt would be the most horrible feeling on their palette. they would hope that it would feel as bad as it makes its victim feel. it's one to use a couplet to make the most terrifying piece in the land but two to make a matrix for maggots and earthworms to squirm and writhe in the fibres of the canvas.
and they would smear the sky together with envy and complexion, a sad reflection on dotted anger and then, they would have nothing to lose except for the last flaking peppermints of misery and a dollop of guilt; they would have to choose from. would they bolt down the first vision of the hypothesis or inch their way back to the dream? they would want all to recoil at the sight of their paintin' and they do,
yes, because it has guilt.
they would study this nights and days and even afternoons, with cups of stygian lemongrass tea wasted in search of "it". they'll try to curate a masterpiece, a mere protrusion of whites, pinks, yellows and muaves until their copper flesh bones combust from the collision of their atomic accumulations and there exists no viscosity between them.
— oh! theirs truly, it'll be displayed upside down the blood of the taylor glacier and on the marred walls of Beelitz-Heilstätten and if they are lucky enough, before the devil himself.
                       tinted or tainted?
                   satirical or metaphorical?
                        irony or nihilism?

you pick.

PS: because gmail nudged me to write?
and oops, apologies in advance for crashing your mail and almost trashing it? that was pending since square one.

yours sincerely