Dear Used Condom on the ground,

I’m writing to you because nobody gives a fuck about you anymore. I writing because you’re so fragile in your rubbery white skin, so weak and delicate. Alone, abandoned, used—kinda like me.

I’m writing to you because I need someone to talk to, who won’t talk back. I don’t need a shoulder to cry on, I just need someone or something to be there.

To me, you’re a symbol of a good time once had. A day where you felt alive and invincible, and not just some useless puppet. A time where even for a moment, you had your purpose, and knew it. I’m writing because you always knew what you wanted to be when you grew up. And you did. And you were.

I almost can’t bear to see you like this, remembering your final hours. Sweating, convulsing, moaning in the darkness, prostrate, pale, and crinkled like a dying man. Shiny and wet and slowly reaching that surreal translucence, the angelic glow of the streetlight calls you on to meet your manufacturer. And I’m going to miss you. Just know that. Someone misses you.

Sitting here beside you, by the curb near the grass and bushes of an old parking lot, I can’t help but picture my life as a bum, and what nightmarish night you went through. Stripped and worn, you relive my fears. You wind up here. Filled, but never quite whole. I hope you enjoyed it, though. Please tell me you enjoyed the ride. Tell me it’s worth it to end life alone on the greasy black stain of the world. Tell me, tell me it was alright.

Honestly, Mr. Condom, I think I’m writing you because I feel just a little bit unstable.

You were there for me, man.
You hung on ‘til the end.
Perhaps I’ll give a kid a middle name after you, except I never bothered to see what it was. Do you remember mine? Does anyone?

Used Condom, I want you to know about my wife and kids.
They don’t exist.
So thanks for that.
But maybe one day, they will, and I hope you won’t feel excluded when it happens. It’ll be hard to dig up the past with this, but one day, my kids will learn all about you. And though an old friend, I’ll feel sheepish in bringing it up. Please forgive me. It’s a long way off. I just won’t know what to do.

But anyway, there’s one thing I want to tell you. You’re definitely not going alone. You’re not going to be swept off this earth without someone else noticing it. I won’t leave that to happen. I just hope that one day, someone will do the same for me.

Mister Used Condom, I feel silly writing this letter, but life is ridiculous sometimes. I already know you’ll never see it, but they say it’s the thought that counts. And I’ve thought of you more than logic deems suitable. I thought of you beyond sense and reason, and I hope you can see that as enough.

And lastly, I’m writing to you as an escape. You’ve always been an escape for me, and there’s still so much that I have to do. And while that isn’t always bad, I have a lot to think about now. I still need to sort out a few things. So once again, thanks for listening. Maybe we’ll meet again someday. One day.

Until then, you’ve been a great friend.

Thanks for everything.



Love,


Caleb Niederer.