written during an ethically questionable lightning storm | recovered from a pile of letters you ignored | contents: abandonment, scientific delusion, avoidant parenting

victor, you really looked at your homemade creature and said: “not my problem.” and then ran away like you hadn’t just invented abandonment issues in human form.

you wanted the glory of creation but none of the accountability. you wanted to play god and then got surprised when your creation had feelings.

you didn’t raise a monster. you raised a mirror and flinched when it reflected you.

you wrote whole chapters about how hard this was for you. meanwhile, your creation was out here learning language and rejection at the same time.

you didn’t need a laboratory. you needed to apologize. and maybe some parenting books.

recorded in a haunted parlor at 2:22am | file recovered from under the floorboards of your unresolved grief | contents: romantic decay, ambient doom, weird vibes and weirder metaphors.

edgar, you didn’t write poetry. you wrote emotional taxidermy.

you fell in love and immediately imagined her dead just so you could write about how tragic it was.

every woman you loved became a ghost with perfect hair. you never let any of them live long enough to disappoint you.

you called it gothic. i call it projection.

you said nevermore, but you meant “i will absolutely spiral if she leaves me.”

your idea of romance was a damp room, a dead wife, and the sound of your own voice echoing through rot.

to: mary shelley (the girl who wrote grief into a body)

status: recovered voicemail fragment

date recovered: undated

contents classified: literary resurrection, romantic contamination, archival intimacy

[ghostlog_0415_audio.wav]

[grief rendered as fiction. playback corrupted.]

click here to listen

best heard with headphones. probably cursed.

recovered document | subject: excessive metaphor

you called it divine justice. i call it a grudge with structure.

you really wrote 14,233 lines of poetry because i didn’t reply.

you invented an entire theology just to drag people you didn’t like.

you wrote me into hell because i didn’t text you back. not metaphorically—literally. with circles. and labels. and personalized punishments.

virgil was your rebound therapist and beatrice was a manic pixie dead girl who never even gave you her number.

and still, somehow, i’m the one in your inferno.

maybe i didn’t answer your letter. maybe i forgot your face. maybe i existed without worshipping you.

you could’ve let it go. instead, you gave me a metaphorical punishment and footnotes.

And then the fucking French song they were dancing to in season two’s translation into English???!! Are you kidding meeeee?

“I love you, I'm waiting for you, I love you, I'm waiting for you.

You're the best thing that has happened to me

But also the worst thing that has happened to me

Maybe I would have preferred it if the day I met you

Had never taken place

The worst blessing

The most beautiful curse

I should take distance from you

But as the saying goes

It’s better to be in bad company than to be alone.”