To A Man Once called Dad

I hope you're satisfied.

I hope you smile as you roll out of your big, empty bed, and make your way through a silent house, preparing for another day of a job you loathe.
I hope you hum as you take some painkillers, for the hangover your nursing from last night, when you drank your troubles into oblivion and stared blankly at the sports channel, until your eyes glaze over.
 (I hope it makes you feel proud, when you wake up at 3 AM, having fallen asleep on a priceless piece of stolen furniture.)



I hope you're nice to the people who tell you all the ways their lives are worse then your's, as you disregard them and stay immersed in self pity.
I hope you nod fondly to the people who don't talk to you as you sit, alone, at lunch break- no more home-made lunches for you now, just take-out.
I hope you give a small grin when you realize there is no one for you to call or text, except perhaps your new lawyer.

And I hope it makes you happy, when you pull into an empty driveway and enter a darkened, silent house.
I hope there's a skip in your step as you eat fast food for dinner, before cracking open a beer and sitting in an empty house.
 I hope it makes you feel satisfied, as you assure yourself that you're the victim here, and that your wife and kids are to blame.
I hope it makes you feel like a man, as you mock and threaten them over drunken emails.

But most of all, I hope that soon, you'll look around at your cigarette stubs and beer bottles, cracked television and stained t-shirt, and you'll give the purest, most heartbreaking smile as you finally, finally realize that there is nothing left for you in life.



 And I hope that's when you swallow a handful too many of sleeping pills.