To those who wish me dead:

I wish for love to strike your soul. I fear the blood in your veins is far too murky for grace to pierce your flesh. The soul, it is. To wish one death is to wish for my mother’s cry to mimic the harmony of your orchestration. I wish that you weren’t a vacuous vagabond whose wanderlust never ceases. In wishing for depletion, there must be a satiation to be had. I wish you a feeling of wholeness so pure, it stifles you. Leaving you confounded by your own malevolence. I fear that in your heedless haste to end my life, you’ve given me yours. Do I appear as one who would go in silence? Is there a sense of fear that rattles your senses to a fever pitch? I will haunt you in my joy. To live well is to have died to oneself a thousand times. Even then, I would be remiss to not return for my own evolution. I will pervade the viscous seclusions of your mind. I am as ruthless with unabashed joy as you are in listless fixation. May you find that the space you give so foolishly to me is what you’ve denied yourself. A privilege you seem to dismiss. I bid you adieu in your abysmal craving for control. May you find the reason you’ve gone blind. In your memory, I shall eternally be.