The words are not hidden, no longer spoken under your breath. They are boldly scrawled across the page, indigo ink bleeding ruthlessly. They don’t mind, nor do you, that the dark liquid has marred everything in its wake, both paper and person. They take pride in the knowledge that they are comets whose blinding trails of light will sear my memory for years to come.

But if only those words knew that I could now exhale, now that the laces of the corset had been cut. The letters on the page didn’t know that as they were emerging from the womb of your mind, I was thinking about how exhausted I was from tiptoeing on eggshells. I was sick of being left to pick up my own shards, having to mend both my form and soul. Now, when we’ve finally gotten down to the marrow of the bone, I realized. Not all poisons kill swiftly, but without a doubt, your native tongue is that of demolition.

I realized after years of fire and brimstone in the guise of amity that you are Lucifer as well as Venus. You are a vision of pure malice garbed in the cloak of the morning star. I realized that although jagged edged slips of paper would trail in my wake as my feet carried away their irreparable burden, I would feel only the slightest wisp of sorrow.