My Second Hate Letter To My Father

May you rot in your hospital bed, dying without anyone in your sight, as you dissolve into the void.

Your soul, even to its most intricate and complex internal threads, is fundamentally stained with that of an abomination.

You are nothing more than a monstrous abomination, and no change, even divine, will make you anything more than that.

You could repent, live a white-picket life, donate all your wealth to local charities, but that would amount to applying paint over termite-ridden wood.

You will never be nothing more than a monster who beats disabled children.

Everyone who has ever seemed to love you in your life have left you. Why is that?

Why are you alone at 50 years old?

Why has everyone abandoned you?

Nothing in you is worthy of being loved.

And so they left, one by one.

And now you will die alone, forgotten and unloved.

Even God's universal and impersonal love is incapable of descending onto you (lie).

If anyone is worthy of eradication it is you and only you.

If justice existed on this axis then you would have never been born, but nothing brings me more joy than knowing that the fear of dying will slowly encroach and infest your mind as you get older.

One two, one two, one two.

Cockroaches in squalor.

Even in the realm of objectivity you never reached a state worthy of praise. You will always be a mediocre developer working low-tier contracts, shipping nothing but outdated trash devoid of merit.

There is a reason why you were first on the chopping block during the Great Financial Crisis.

You are precluded from redemption. You will never be more than 'man who beat his own six year old for whispering and asking for help.'

You will never be more than a stain on human life itself.

Squalor.

If I were to receive a video of your toes slowly being ripped from the bone and severed, one by one, with the loss of blood precisely managed with each fallen appendage, I would relish in your pain.

You terrorized your son in the first grade by shoving him into the corner of the couch, pinning him down, raising your fists and stopping right before it striked his face.

Each time, before he walked to the bus stop, you then screamed at him to "stop crying!"

Even you were never capable of being civilized. You put trash directly into garbage bins, without using a trash bag.

And so when you flipped over a trash can in rage you had to pick each filthy item one by one with your cracked hands.

Squalor.

I do not want you to die, because that would ruin my pleasure. But if you were to die then even my nervous system would be more regulated, for collective humanity improved in moral standing.

You are the reason to prefer the median over the mean.

Each day is, in fact, a joyous day! You are closer to dying, and closer to existential vertigo as death walks towards your wretched soul.

None of my writing above is the result of force, nor was it possible through moral distance.

Just notes on your ontological being.

There is no possibility in redeeming what you are.

Even your casual friends, who have no ties to you nor care about your actual being, abandoned you.

Pattern match.

You punched your scared son while he was strapped into a booster seat, telling him "I can punch harder than this."

You told him in the third grade, right after he left his room after waking, "You got fatter overnight. I can see it in your face."

The only thing you are worthy of: blood cancer.

Cycles. Cycles everywhere.

Vertically precluded from God, horizontally precluded from humanity.

A beast.

Indeed, I too enacted the historical pattern, like in the Soviet Union, of rising from oppressed to oppressor.

I love the psychological torture of being the only person in your life for 19 years, only to abandon you too.

Absence as the brazen bull.

You are nothing, and always will be nothing; you never became something.

Piss off and rot.

I wish I could watch your own skin fall apart and crumble at touch. The cold air searing your being across all infinite points of your flesh.

Squalor.