To his late lover and mistress,
The water was troubled with a rocky rage; I burned the bridge anyway.
Rivers of resentment shaped my days and nights, yet that anger kept my fire a-light.
No engineer could construct a dam high enough to contain the bitter lessons pushing me downstream.
Wondering what had become of the once proud girl who promised to always stand strong; and was brought to her knees by a flood of lies.
Death does not excuse your destructive denial; I nearly drowned among trout-faced men.
None of us is truly blameless, yet there is no forgiveness granted.
Petty as it may sound; I always knew it would end with one of us in the ground.
Now you are food for the worms, buried beneath six feet of dirt, and I find myself glad it was not the other way around.
Sincerely,
His Happily Divorced Ex-wife
About the Creator
Mary E Bradbury
I wrote my first short story at 13 and it became like breathing for me. Pages and pages of a thousand streams of consciousness. Then life got in the way. My kids are now teens and I am compelled to share them. I have to breathe again.
Keep reading
More stories from Mary E Bradbury and writers in Poets and other communities.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.