The year in solitude I spent without you ended with my mouth full of dick for a little bit of weed. Like a hero on a white horse you came back and I told my psychiatrist I was a psychopath. I am sick Thom, you must understand and through this malaise I have forgotten how to love you back. When you touched my heart it felt like the black sun shined and flared brilliantly with red. Red was once my favorite color, because it begins with R. Perhaps, there is something poetic to that. My logical depression anchors my soul. But I have been told that you are a sweetheart. I never realized before. I am such a hateful guttersnipe. I am weathered by the abuse I have born to allow. And through your eyes I see it clearly now as abuse. I must have low self-esteem but I am not lacking in ego. I am grown but I feel like a child. I know it bothers you but I want to slit my wrists and dissolve in blood. I want to disappear in the bathtub. I cry but it is never enough. There is a roiling storm inside me and the lightning cannot crack and the thunder doesn't roll. The clouds just roll upon themselves over and over in waves waiting for the moment when all this tension can be released. Making love is the only easement and still it overwhelms me. I got your ring on my finger tattooed. I primarily wanted to alter that fucking tattoo a third time to be the truth. But now I am uncertain. Am I a fool? To fall in love with you is a decapitating move. Call me the chicken. I know it will never happen but one day I would like to rub my face in your chest and smell you. Please don't hurt me Thom. I am sad and lonely for a lover. And I would be yours if only it could become reality. Thank you and good night.
Love,
Rhael
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