Dear My Ex-Lovers,
Don’t think it’s a privilege that I’ve written about you. Don’t think it’s an honor that your name casts behind the beauty of my work. You’re not allowed to take credit for my words. You’re not entitled to praise to others that you have inspired the pieces of art. Let’s not lie about the truth your ego struggles to reveal. You’re just another victim in my story, another body to throw on the rug and murder in cold blood. Your only existence is to unmask the wounds in my flesh, and the deceit hidden beneath your tongue. I’m not rewarding you for your presence in my mind. I’m calling you out on your cowardice, your inability to follow through with who you presented yourself to be. I may speak of who you once were, and what I admire you to see. But let’s not dwell on the innocence you lack of, the love I’m apparently unwilling and undeserving to receive. I don’t write to make you comfortable in your skin. I don’t write so you can speak highly of your worth, the arrogance you love to commend. I just happened to prick you with my rose pedaled thorns, and bleed your names across the spine.
So go on, keep checking up on me, keep telling yourselves you’re the only men giving me satisfaction for the creation of my stories. Trust when I say you’re just naked bodies at my disposal.
And honestly, nothing more.
The One and Only.