Postcard From Hell

I prayed to God hoping he’d send me a distraction. Then I just stood around, and well, nothin’ happened. So I said, “This just proves you don’t really exist, and it leaves no excuse not to take the initiative.” So I wrote you a postcard postmarked from Hell, and I assume you received it, but it’s hard to tell. Cuz I checked days off of calendars, hours off clocks, and never found a response in my post office box. And it’s hard to forget all the sweet things you told me before you washed your hands like I was uncooked poultry. I know I should be over it; I thought I was stronger. I’ve said, “Time heals everything,” but I don’t any longer. I’ve always had the good fortune of attracting lovers, but I have two categories, and you’re not like the others. You’re the secret I keep, and it keeps me humble, and when I try to sleep, it awakes like a jungle. And it terrifies me cuz I know I won’t get out alive; but that a’int the scary part, it’s the waitin’ to die. And there are unflattering descriptions to define such a scenario; I discuss it with the sad singer I’ve trapped in my stereo. We conclude to write it down and examine it on paper with a grain of optimism that it’ll all make sense later.