Dear Karmic Cyst on my chest,
your vocation has been fulfilled. Balance has been restored to the universe, you can be on your merry fucking way now.
I know why you appeared initially. It was a poetic punishment, I accept that. That girl who I liked while living in Holland in my impetuous youth. I recall (patchily) that day we spent together, wandering about, wopped out to the willikers. Romance was young and tangible then. As we trembled together in a scabies infested sleeping bag, she confessed to me her fears of a lump upon her breast.
Genuinely concerned, I urged her doctorwards, just to be on the safey. Upon her return, boob in bandage after having had that cyst removed, what a cunt I was not to approach her with words of comfort. Instead, I got fucked up on chemicals with my mates while she huddled alone in a caravan, sporadically twitching the frayed curtains.
Soon after my return, you appeared. As if transfered from her to me. And you've been there ever since. I kept you for a while, out of guilt, refusing that routine, surgery a GP could perform in seconds. I think I've paid that debt now so I'll be expecting you to vacate my corporeal form forthwith, if you don't mind.
Yours humbly,
your deserving victim.
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