Dear Yellow,

I’m sorry that it has come to this, I really am. I’m not kidding, part of me wants to stick around for your candy words. But I cannot. My dearest empty Yellow, it’s over. We’re over. What I mean to say is, this isn’t working out for me. I just can’t go on living like this with you, because I’m not really living. I’m not grabbing a hold of life when I’m with you. No matter what I do, you continue to lay sandbags of empty words on my chest, weighting me down so that I cannot fly the nest and see the world, and it’s finally crushing my lungs enough so that I feel just enough pain to motivate me to change. And so I’m changing. I’m leaving you forever.

Don’t think that this is like all those other times; I’m not coming back. I found someone else, Yellow. His name is Reid. And you know what I love about him? He doesn’t play to me. He doesn’t make me into some kind of false hero of the world, some dreamy, admirable, sensitive, in-touch master of the written zen. He doesn’t make a shaky foundation of lies under my so that I eventually crash into the pavement when I realize all that I just made of myself is good only as fodder for dancing embers. He doesn’t get me stuck in myself, or himself, like you got me stuck in yourself. You got me stuck in yourself, Yellow, and your cankerous words turned my whole soul to a rotten log; empty and hollow. What I mean to say Yellow, is that Reid is honest. Something that, despite your kindness, you never could be and how foolish of me to believe you could! How foolish of me to trust your words of such great heights! My foolishness cost me; I fell hard when I realized how empty I was. But now it’s your turn to fall, Yellow. I want you to fall into an endless pit. I want you to be eaten piece by piece by blood-drooling tigers. I never want to see you for as long as I live. I want to spend the rest of my days with Reid and only Reid, and I never want to let you in my soul again until the end of my days. It’s over.

Hatefully,
Steven Penwell

P.S.: I’ll see you next week.