Quesadilla

You took my quesadilla. You took my fucking quesadilla. I’m leaving this letter not just because you took it, but cause your spit has dried on the ledge of the sink and your socks are in the tub. I’m sick and I’m tired and I’m sick. Moving in was my idea so I guess it’s fitting I be the one to end it. Rick: I’m leaving you. You smell like a pig. After we have sex you smell a hog. I’ve never seen you make the bed. Shit I don’t even know if you know how to make a bed. I was watching this comedy about stupid people with some friends last weekend and they were all falling over and laughing at the jokes but I wasn’t. The stupid people sounded like you, Rick. Like you. This whole quesadilla business was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. I want to get back to my work and have space to think about ideas without caring for your fat, sloppy ass…that was too harsh, I’m sorry. I can be tough on you sometimes. You’ve changed me. I feel like our love used to be a big, exciting blister and I was always secretly just waiting for it to pop but it never did. It just oozed and turned into a sad, hard callous. That’s what you’ve made me. Calloused. Don’t feel too bad about the quesadilla. This was coming, I’ve just been looking for something to make me say so.  

—P. Schneider