Letter to a John,

You’ve refused all of my attempts to give you a name. And I understand, even while I despise you for it.

You weren’t defending “the common person” while arguing for superficiality. You were defending yourself, and we both knew it. The same way we knew when I said those things don’t interest me, everything else those words implied.

You’re a little embarrassed to want the Thomas Kincade when you were offered a Picasso. I know, I know. But at the same time, you’re proud to be honest and know what you want.

A Thomas Kincade is pleasing to the eye and only produces banal conversations about likes/dislikes, these preferences that mean so much in your world.

A Picasso requires so much more.

A Kincade asks no questions and can be improved by a professional for a modest fee.

A Picasso is always a Picasso.

Does anyone ever love a Picasso the way so many love their Kincades?

John is the name of my brother and my father.

And what is this curse of greatness bestowed upon Picasso and so many others? How do they relate to others, one on one?

Why do so many die by their own hands?

What connections can’t they form?

What won’t people take from them?

What won’t you take from me?

I’ve run out, dear John, I’ve run out of things for you to take because others are latched to my breasts, sucking away, and by the time you call for me to pick you up and feed you, my nipples are sore and my middle is empty and I’d like you to feed me, but there is your gaping mouth.

What have you ever given me that I didn’t forcibly take?

And I am so good, like Jesus, and I try to feed the multitudes, but jesus fucking christ, at least someone offered him two fishes and a loaf of bread as a starting point.

And when I bleed it’s because I’m already bled dry, and I have to check to see if it’s really all gone. A periodic drilling for reserves.

What haven’t you taken from me? What haven’t I offered you? What guilt have you not flung at me like an ape with feces when I said I was tapped out for a moment?

So I gave more, and you slurped it through a bendy straw and asked for seconds.

I asked for something once, and waited til my AIM went idle.

I asked for something once, and you said I couldn’t have it.

I asked for something once, and you laughed.

I am too deep for flowers.

I am too deep for backrubs or breakfast.

These are things to be taken from me, not bestowed.

I am too much and therefore must be bled with leeches.

What won’t people take from great people?

Kurt killed himself after his wife wrote a song about how much other people wanted him, but she did too. “I want to be the girl with the most cake.”

She didn’t even offer him a slice. Did she ever wonder what she could give him?

Has anyone ever given me anything? I mean, really GIVEN, not in exchange or return.

I told myself that if you didn’t get me anything for Valentine’s day I was going to leave you. I knew how petty it sounded in my mind, but it’s a symbol, and you know it. I knew there was no reason to wait two weeks.

There cannot be disappointment when there is no actual expectation.

Pass me around like a rag doll.

Discuss over poker who has the balls to fuck me next.

I should know by now not to get involved with people who are afraid of the future. People who don’t think their careers will pan out. Those people are gutless and only want to bleed me.

Bleed me, you fuckers. Go ahead.

Go on, take everything, take everything, I want you to.

Go on, take everything, take everything, I dare you to.

I told you, from the start, just how this would end. When I get, what I want, and I never want it again.

Sincerely,

The Picasso You Don’t Want

PS- Sincerest hopes you’ll get that Kincade and have Jennifer Aniston look-alike babies with nice skirts.