It’s not so much that I love her, it’s that she’s my everything. Every fiber of her being I crave for with every ounce of existence. She is my everything.

I worry about her. Losing her would be the end. Without my everything, I would have nothing. When she drives a little fast, I cry. When she takes that curve at 40 when it says 35 I tense up and pray to every God I’ve ever heard of that she doesn’t lose control, fall into the ditch, and leave a charred corpse to fill the casket. When she runs down the stairs I know that one false step would result in a head-over-heels tumble of despair. I would watch and scream and patch the wounds, as quickly as possible her body even in death must be perfect. When she goes off to work, to guard those evil men in their nine-by-nine cells of imprisonment, I too am imprisoned in a state of worry and panic. I can only rock in the fetal position until I see her safe and sound again. Those bastards will never take her. She is my gun-toting honey. She is my everything.

I miss her. Not just her smile and laugh and long knot-filled hair and her fake gold tooth, I miss her being. I miss the way she burns my toast and I eat it anyway. I miss the splashes of her she leaves on the toilet seat because she refuses to put the seat down. She’s one stubborn lover. I miss her yelling for me to “get the FUCK OUT!” when I snack on Cheetos and stare at her sleeping… for hours. I miss the way she never lies and really does call the cops every time I have to break in because she still hasn’t given me a key. Damn my baby is one honest sugar. She’s my everything.

I still miss her to this day and worry about her. She doesn’t come by my cell like she used to. I still massage the bruise she gave me last month. I know she’ll be back. This new guard woman doesn’t give me the proper beatings like she did. She needs me. She’s my everything.

You people do get jokes, right?