I’m so #$%&ing grateful for your mess. Tis true, Ari didn’t quite say it like that, but that is how I carry it. It is the only way I can put you and your crap to bed. If I had things my way, I would be pushing you into angry bees nests and running my car through your front door, but thank goodness I cannot.
You have made what should have been sweet, bitter and rotten. Your nasty words managed to soak to the bone what should have been good and clean. You built a house with walls of sorrow and unworthiness and crammed in all of the innocence you could find, locking the door behind you. You single-handedly crushed love and replaced it with a great, unwavering disdain. As far as I can tell, you sir/madam are a monster only here for the amusement of everything ugly.
Believe it or not, I don’t hate you. Actually, as I stand here, talking to you, I feel sorry. I am sorry you are so clueless. Sorry, you will miss out on greatness (oh if you only knew). I am sorry you were used as a tool to tear open and poison. I am so, so sorry for you. I can see you wearing your unhappiness like a heavy coat, your head hanging low when no one is looking. I can see the lack of love like an open, festering sore. The secrecy of your lies weighing you down. The smell of the dead bodies you buried oozes from your pores and no matter how much you cover it with beautiful fabrics or flowery fragrances, you still smell it.
I am sorry you felt you were in the right. I am sorry you felt entitled. I am sorry you stumbled and fell. One too many ill-fated cards atop your house will make it all come tumbling down, sooner rather than later. And when it does, I will not have shelter to share. You will have to weather the storm alone.
I thank you for your mess. I thank you for allowing me to see you for who you really are. I thank you for allowing your mask to crack and the truth spill out, if only for a moment. I thank you for the words aplenty and the blame. I am grateful because, without you, there would be no me.
Isn’t it funny how that works? (C’mon. It won’t hurt. You can smile. It is funny.) You spend your days being wicked, and the end result is your misery, yet those who have had to bear the brunt of your abuse come out shiny and new.
I want to shake your hand. Yes, the one that stirs the pot housing your witches brew. I get to go off and be shiny (aren’t you excited for me). I get to be newer and greater and better than you will ever be. I get to witness the moments you only wish you could. I get to stand tall and pretend you don’t exist.
For that, my friend, I say Thank U…Next (wink).