I read your diary today.

I read about how you kicked her dog just to make her cry. I know all about how you feel guilty about thinking of other women when we fuck, even if it is only sometimes. I know now that you don’t know how to spell “definitely.”

Your handwriting is really girly, you know that? It makes me sick. You obviously spent time perfecting it, working to make the loops look just right. I can’t believe those fucking To-Do lists in the midst of all the pages of whining and crying about how you’re starting to look old. Work on Backyard, Drink More Water, Think more about Retirement Investments. I should have added in red ink, just underneath, Stop Lying to Yourself in your own Diary, you Piece of Shit. The neighbor’s teenage daughter does not have a crush on you, despite your endless efforts to charm the low-riders off of her.

I didn’t see much mention of my name. Your wife, apparently, doesn’t come to mind much when you’re alone, blaming your mother on paper for your every flaw. You did mention though that you hate how slack my face has gotten around the jawline, and that sometimes when you look at me sitting a certain way I repulse you.

I already knew that. I can see it in the way you hold your mouth when you look in my direction. Your empty, whispered compliments roll off my flesh like beads of oil. I loathe the way you smile when you say that I’m beautiful–an ugly, teeth-baring smile that belies your every word. At night, when you touch me, I pretend we’re still new at this and that you didn’t turn the lights off again. Or I pretend you’re the boy from the copy center who touches my arm every time I visit.

I know your weaknesses. I know you hate your body and you shame yourself at every turn. Knowing what I know now I will pick at those scabs on your soul every day until they bleed. And scar.

I read your diary, and I’m not at all sorry about it.