So, naturally, as one does, I seek to blame someone --anyone other than myself-- for the psychological hazing being inflicted on the freshman that is my head.
Tonight (this morning?), as I bend over to ask Otter, "Please, sir, may I have another?," I choose to turn my ire on someone truly underserving. But, as she is --or was-- infinitely more talented than me...well, that makes her a prime target. That she's already dead? All the better. (See the above use of "homicidal" for reference.)
Yes, as loathing her may somehow salve my wounds and, for the moment, keep me out of the pen, I have chosen to unleash my inner Patrick Bateman on Emily Dickinson.
That talented bitch.
Yes who are you, MISS Dickinson, to lecture me on hope? Talking all "feathers" and "perches" and selflessness...What would you know of hope?
For all intents and purposes, you were a freak! A social outcast! Holed up in your own home...afraid to even venture past your front door. Wearing white all the livelong day! Hasn't anyone ever told you that white is not at all slimming?
Oh! And I've seen the pictures. Believe me, girlfriend, you could use all the help you can get! It's no wonder that man you were pining over never took a second glance at you...and you're going to tell me you never stopped hoping?
Bitch, you must have feathers in your brains! ...
Readers, I don't think it's working.
For no amount of bile-spewing nonsense aimed at another person is gonna mend this Pacific-sized rent in my soul.
My soul -- where "hope" is supposedly perched.
Emily, if I may, I actually find you lovely.
Tonight, in my darkest hour, your poetry --never meant for publication, written solely for your eyes --echoed in my poisoned brains.
Like most things "mean," my mud slinging stems from jealousy. Envy. Bitterness. Failure.
For, according to your own pen, you never lost that little bird. But me? Well me...
"And sore must be the storm; That could abash the little bird; That kept so many warm."