why is it that in the folds and creases of my heart I find a piece of grit so small and unimportant yet it rubs at me incessantly and has spoiled one of my most tender and heartfelt nicknames for the love of my lifetime?
that bitch. that fucking fun sponge. that fucking haplessly eager bitch.
a postcard: addressed to him.
and yet, why not his full name? why the endearment that I so often spoke?
funny thing is, it seems so harmless, so casually appropriate, so just fine. it's only under my lens that it becomes distorted and vile. it is his name after all, just a variation, a nothing. I bet he didn't even notice. If I had done it, he would have smiled at the thing I always said, the way I lingered over the syllables, teasing out the "r's" and he would have known I had done it on purpose with the intent of making him smile.
entertaining the possibility that I may have said it so often that it became ingrained in the minds of those around us seems too banal. I want to hate her. And so I will. Give me fresh hate and I will seethe.
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