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Again with that hardly heart wrenching face. Nice try but I’m not who you thought I was. Whatever that is. Hot coffee at my chest. That was a little much. I may have spilt my ink but at least I stopped it from leaking off the paper. Yours having well surpassed the threshold of the table is left in a puddle on the floor. I hadn’t anticipated that. Yet again my judgement was clouded. Lessons never learned. Hearts tear like ripping off a scab for the unscrambled. Good people can be scrambled. I know that now. Went to your house that day. Lessons never learned. Ink stained table. You break down your false persona to screams and cracks while I churn with anxiety in this metal box you created for us. Her lighter cracks to the sound of leave and I’m a dead women. I seem to already be a dead man. This is beyond me, beyond family, beyond doctors, beyond lawyers, beyond government intervention. To be utterly screwed is a harsh mistress. She calls upon a storm of physical violence and broken thought processes. When her life was thoroughly drowned in the rains of her storm. She set me free. Good people can be scrambled. I’ll write that down.

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