My dear June,
It’s way past four in the morning. I’m afraid I won’t catch any sleep tonight. All thanks to you, of course, to you and that spell you have cast on me. Your lips are still on mine, somewhere. I still feel my fingers stroking your breasts, your teeth biting my ear. We have been here before. I have been here before. Now I am alone again, after that talk we had, in my lonely room on the second floor, and I understand. For the first time in years I finally understand what I must do and I understand who I am supposed to be. But this isn’t your typical loser dreaming, it isn’t that overwhelming feeling of dopamine, not the brain stimulants rewiring themselves, at least not tonight. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. Of course we don’t know each other, weren’t our encounters purely sexual? Yet when I look at you and at those hallowed eyes I feel more of nothing and a little less of everything than what I usually feel. I’m by no means a prodigy child, I crawl across the finishing line, barely holding myself from bleeding to death. Too many nights I do not remember, centuries of tales and stories I haven’t told even myself. There’s a lover in the story, and a priest, and the raping of the greatest con man alive. Words don’t mean anything anymore. I want to scream and cut my skin until I gag on my own gore and spit it against the walls I myself have constructed. My dear June, I understand now, and I fear I will never understand again. I do not belong here. I do not belong anywhere. My words may very well be the only thing touching the surface of everything I will ever be remembered for. Please hold me, I’m begging, just one more second. Close your eyes and take a good look at the future.
It’s two months from now and I am sitting inside the bathtub, naked.
It’s two months from now and there’s blood coming out of my wrist and I am so very sorry for you and everyone else and nobody else because you’re the only one I can truly love. That ugly rusty kitchen knife is next to me, it’s painted in a very pretty crimson red, and I am sorry. I have thrown my clothes on the bathroom floor, and I am sorry. I lied to you, there wasn’t a way out. It was an empty promise, another one, one of thousands. As I’m bleeding out I’m thinking about you and the many things I love about you. There’s your smile, your touch, your lips, so very soft. Then there’s my crooked teeth next to your perfect white smile, my thin fingers, uncared for, full of burn blisters and knife cuts, my beaten up lips bleeding. An uneven fit, the two of us, one might see me as a stray dog being picked up by your gentle arms, and I will be sorry. I miss you. I miss you so much. I miss you so much it’s gut wrenching and I feel like throwing up again. I miss you and I don’t even know you, you’re not real, right? I miss myself, I miss the voices I associate with you, I miss my best friend, I miss my dog, I miss my old friends, I miss any of my friends, I miss my first kiss, I miss my virginity, I miss my purity, God, I want to see the sun set down one last time, I want to feel the warm snow before I pass out, so many things I never did, and I’m glad you weren’t one of them. I’m glad that I, for the short span of being alive, met you, once, twice, I’m glad you were there for me at one indefinite point. The blue room’s door opened and I’m going in, so wish me luck. My dear June, I am sorry, and I miss you, and I’m sorry for being sorry.
Yours