For every boy who has ever broken my heart, I’d like you to know that I’ve played the victim, the virgin and taken you down to hell in the process.
I’ve most definitely dragged your name through a pile of shit so dank that Snoop Dog would cough up a lung. Without you knowing, I’ve turned you into the small town junkie sucking off everyone’s uncle in the back alley for a nickel. I’ve told everyone that you have the Dasani Water™ of penises; I’ve told them how I’d rather deep throat a cactus.
Here I am, verbally destroying you from my crystal covered thrown; and yet, it’s starting to become evident that this princess is no angel.
You may have ignored my calls. You may have treated me like a cheap slut. You may have left me for dead like that bald guy in Jurassic Park left the kids. But, goddamn, I didn’t have the right to do it to anyone else.
I’ve been quick, astoundingly quick, to drag any boys who’ve hurt me down to hell; but, shit, how many boys have I inadvertently hurt?
I’m talking to you, the nervous boy who asked me out at the sandwich shop, and you, the nice boy who texts me every two months without fail to see how I’m doing, and you, the boy who loved me while I attacked him, and you, the boy with the tattoos and southern accent, and you, the boy who told me you’ve been in love with me since I was 11, and you, and you, and you, and you. I’m talking to all of you: everyone whose romantic love I didn’t want. I’m down on my hands and knees praying I didn’t break your heart the way my heart has been broken. I hope I put you down gently with a single slash to the throat or a gun to the head; I hope I didn’t let you suffer for long.
And if you did suffer? Oh God, if you did? Please, please feel free to drag my name through a pile of shit so dank that it sends Snoop Dog to his grave. I deserve it.