I want nothing from you.
You’ve given me more than enough.
And none of it good.
So, leave me nothing in your will.
You being dead, and knowing you’re dead, is enough for me.
Knowing I’ll never hear another lie, another angry phone call, another hateful message on my machine.
Anything you’d leave me, I’d put in a pile in the driveway.
Then I’d pour gasoline over it and toss a match on it.
I’d roast marshmallows.
Smear them on graham crackers and add chocolate bars.
Bought with my own money, of course.
While yours burns in the flickering pile.