Dear Cunt,

How easy it is to lose yourself in the hurricane of thoughts, how easy it is to convince yourself you have what it takes. And how easy it is to be in bed at night, staring at the darkness and pretend you’re good at what you do. All those people who trust you’ll do well, all those people who have faith in you, as if you were what they worked their entire life for. You are. You are the single most disappointing thing they have ever made. The disappointment you bring them, along with the shattered hopes and dreams hurt you more than your own disappointment. And you lie your way out of it, as much as you can. You lie and convince yourself you’ll be okay one day.

And then that darkness finds you again and suddenly it’s not comforting anymore, it’s not embracing you warmly to hide you from pain. It is the pain. It’s the monster you have to fight every time you go to bed. Your breathing’s quicker and your chest hurts. You know you’re having a panic attack and you try to contain it, but it hurts so much. And then you cry.

I hope you’d believe me and all those voices that scream in your head telling you that you mean nothing. Nothing to no one. Such a waste of air, food and space. You lack what it means to be a human being. All the people around you admit their flaws and where they went wrong and how they could change. Then there’s you. Alone and still lying to yourself about what you mean and what you can do.

But please, don’t find that razor. I don’t think I say this often enough, I don’t think I emphasise just how important it is to stay alive. For me, of course; and for the sole purpose of these letters. I could never find someone as rabidly idiotic and flawed and failing as you to write to. I could never find someone nearly as desperate and pathetic. I love you for that.

You wish you had someone to turn to, someone to share your bed and cry silently on their shoulder. But you can’t have no one, and that’s one of your biggest flaws, isn’t it? That inability to share anything other than the adulterated love for things you shouldn’t. That painful little scratch on the side of your leg that bleeds and bleeds. That blood you know is dirty with the secrets of your past. That past you’ll never share with anyone. And most of all, you miss the times when it was easy to pretend. When there were people to pretend to. You miss the ease of waking up in the morning and not hating yourself.

Well, babes, they stopped about the time when you started bleeding.

I wish I could comfort you, but I don’t want to, because the most comforting thing would be death and that’s not an option.

You lack the talent, the want, the desire, the drive to account to anything. It’s unfortunate, but you should have been a pathetic woman like your mother, like her mother before that. You are, but you should just accept it, sink in the depression eating away at your flesh and let go.

Fucking let go.

Lots of love (none at all really),


Sonnet to my Dead (Lover)

There’s no one else I would smother myself with –
day after day, in your death you have touched:
my soul, my face, my breast, my will to live –
I don’t. I can’t. I do. Still live.
Tell me – your urn, do you fill it as fully as you once did me?
Do you sing to it, kiss, do you slap it?
Are you going to die on her too? Leave her, stab her?
I hate you know. I don’t. I do. (Still live.)
Death is appealing, I agree – but I am scared that when we meet
you won’t remember who I am, who I belong to, who we are.
You cannot kill the dead, my love. Trust me, I tried.
I’m jealous of the peace you have – please wait.

How often do you have to breathe to stay alive?
Because I can’t. I do. Still live. (I won’t.)


Once a Month


                                                I Maed Dis


                                                                                                            About Firstly Fucking

(pain –


March-April-May Wedding

They fall together,
fail together and
call me and
I whisper what.
Their flesh burns
my flesh when
we come together.
Such togetherness, we
try to fight
try to resist.
The pink flesh
cries down on
my bright red
curly red hair.
It rains today;
spring always comes
with all its
flouncy fleshy flirty
trees; the pain
will often keep
me up. I
digress; I hate.
I don’t. I
do. Will you
marry me, love?
Fuck me sideways.
Line breaks line
breaks line breaks.
What the fuck?
Fuck me. Me.
Fuck me. It
often rains down
with pink petals.
I often get
married in spring.
I often ask
if you ever
loved me really.
Fuck you. No,
really now. Fuck –
fuck fuck fuck (!) –
fuck you, darling.


The Severity of Lucid Dreaming


                                                                                                The Tragedy of How I Returned to the Smiths

a while to go, some time before the hour of the wake
a second or a day, the nipples of my eyes are now erect
the little hairs that end my lids flutter unconsciously, shy and obedient
my lips have kneeled in silent prayer, good girl he tells me and I swallow
my pride, the bees in my duodenum all sting and I swallow them too
have intercourse with me, I say, trying to forgo the use of fuck
he smirks and I find it difficult to breathe when his fingers comb the curls I spend so much to birth
I almost beg but not yet, too soon or too late or too obvious or too much or too little
I crack my knuckles on the floor, I let my nails puncture the heel of my palm
so alone, I know, such a good distraction, I know; good girl, he says and my tongue darts out
his tie is undone, long and tickling my forehead when I sit up a little
the army of bees attacks, I groan; so vicious, and absolutely no honey to pour from my pores
he never promised anything, I know, but it’s so easy to forget when his fingers
when his fingers, his nails, his lips, his fingers and that blasted grin that makes me sigh with hope
he never promised anything, and I always knew, but I forget, I forgot, I tell him
he smirks and I lose myself in those smug lips, I lose myself in his arms, it’s warm and easy to do so
I can’t stay, he says and I bite my tongue to stop from pulling a Meredith Grey on him
I’m more than a bloody pick me choose me love me, I won’t be at Joe’s tonight
I’ll be in the pub, drowning in Irish liquid and having a Scottish prick drown in me
go then, she’s waiting, I tell him and I go from his good little slut to my own cold-hearted bitch
no hard feelings, he tells me, half asking; I raise an eyebrow and lick my lips
you’re not that important, darling, I lie and wrap my own skin around myself
he nods solemnly and shuts the door quietly on his way out; just a distraction, I know
the bees turned wasps turned demons turned necrophagous horrendous pets swivel ferociously
I crawl into bed and will myself to sleep; I’ll Scarlett the fuck out of myself and think tomorrow
have intercourse with me ??? who says that shit, who says that instead of the entirety that is the word fuck
and fuck me and fuck you too, darling; I’ll will myself to sleep and in some roundabout way be awake
the little scavenger fucks salute with a flesh eating joy. I once had a dream I start telling the story […]



My love,

I’m writing this to you because I have rarely missed you as much as I do now. How do you live when part of you died? How do you breathe when the fucking pain in your chest stops you halfway through the motion? What was it? The other guy spat it out? It doesn’t matter. You know, you must know how much I miss you every day. You know how easy it is for me to forget where I am and what I’m doing and remember everything. Replay it. Rewind it. Relive it. Cry. Do it again. Sob in my own arms. Be sick with pain.

She’s off marrying someone. I’m under the desk in my room, plunged in darkness, sitting on dust. I’m not crying, but that’s only because the tears refuse to fall. Like lint, like the unwanted, they cling to me and I cling, in turn, to myself. How easy it is to forget loneliness and then have it hit you. If I can’t have you, I’ll take the loneliness. It’s not even that bad half of the time. I’m surrounded by people, they tell me this and that and I find it fascinating for about eight seconds before I remember you’re not with me and what’s the point of it really? You used to tell me I’ll be a famous writer one day. Your fingers on my spine, tapping my skin to get my attention. I’d snort and tell you to shut the fuck up, I’ll be a crack whore. And you would rest your forehead on my shoulder blade and chuckle, tell me I’ll be your crack whore.

Take me to you, with you. Please.

I’ve felt this way before, remember when I wrote to you daily, numbering those little messages, much like I do now. I miss you so much, my love. My life. My liver and lungs and my heart and my soul, the chipped red nails and the chapped lips that you’d tell me I need to put moisturiser on. And I’d call you a pussy and you’d cuddle me for hours, blaming it on your dick pms or some shit like that. You were singing to me at four in the morning, when I was high off my tits. My head was bobbing and you told me I make a perfect groupie. How, I asked you. Perfect audience, silent and hot.

Please. I’m begging.

My guitar was in your hands and I found your fingers fascinating. You were singing that Romanian song I love so much, speaking of breaking up and loss and I never thought it would be us. I thought, in the idealised way that only a person who’s in love can, that we would find ourselves getting married. I’m still wearing your ring, I always will. Elizabeth married the kingdom; I marry the dead. The lost. The never returning. The pain. The blood that pours. The horrors of going to sleep and the horrors of waking up. This never ending circle of agony I walk in and sometimes spin in place, to make more of it.

If I could, I’d burn myself right into you. Do you think your ashes hold your essence in a microscopical way? Do you think my ashes could make love to yours? Do you reckon anyone would know? And if they did, why should we care, we’re dead anyway.

That first Christmas was something I had been looking forward to for ages. I would have actually taken you home to my mum, pass you as a friend and enjoy stupid times with us. I would have told her we’d watch a film and we might have fucked or not, and just cuddle instead. You’d have gone home at midnight or so and call me as soon as you were downstairs to tell me that my mother is truly as mental as I had told you. I had vodka instead, Chris Rea and a cut or twelve.


We scratched and hurt each other’s growing pains.



Please, my love.

Sometimes I hold my own hand when I go to bed and it almost feels like you. I have nice dreams, or horrible dreams. Either way, I wake up crying, maybe a nosebleed. Either because I want the dreams to happen or because I’m so scared. I reach for you, years (!) later and you’re not there. Surprise. I cry even more then.

No, I’ll never stop loving you. I’ll never fall out of love with you. I’ll never have closure because you deserve better than closure. You deserve this horrid sappy romantic nature, you deserve my entire heart and soul – sometimes you’ll have to share one of its corners with someone else. Don’t worry, I don’t plan on that happening for a long time.

Now come to bed.

Or better yet, take me to yours. We’ll fall asleep together and we’ll never wake up. We always said how important it was to smile to each other when we’d open our eyes. But you also said that snakes should have tiny feet so they could wear tiny high-heels, and I also said that they’d sway their hips on the way down the stairs, so we might not be right.

Cause I can’t love you enough.


I’ll be waiting.

My all and everything more than that,

Jo – the one love you never finished.


Dear Cunt,

How much do you have to hate yourself? On a scale of one to one hundred, how easy would it be to find yourself in the late thousands? How do you have the power to smile every day? Enjoy the tingling feeling in your lower stomach? Breathe? Exist? How?

Don’t tell me, you’ll spoil it. Cover your ears, hide behind glasses, drink and smoke it away. It’s what I do. It’s how I wake up and live every day. Make yourself pretty and argue it’s for your own good. Say you want to see something nice when you check yourself out in a mirror. Come on, we’ve been through this, see my second letter.

You’re pathetic, how many times do I have to tell you this so that it gets through the layers of hair you put hairspray on? There’s nothing there for you, there’s no way you will ever be happy. Live with it. Accept it, embrace it. Fuck yourself up every week, every six months when you decide to fall in love. Draw petty pictures on your walls and then paint them  over, as if that will make it all better. Pretend it works. Think of the easy way to get in someone’s life and fuck it up because ultimately, you’ll fail. You won’t fuck anyone over. Other than yourself, obviously. You’re a pro at that, aren’t you? All that wasted talent, all those nights you like to think there’s a great future waiting for you.

Spoiler: death is the only thing that’s in the future. Heartbreak that you cause yourself.

That lovely person who could make you happy? You’ll murder him, like you murdered all the others. Go, instead, for the fucked up option; go for the pain. Not physical, that’s alright. The ultimate emotional fuckery that you can only do to yourself. Such are the lengths of your hatred. That is the level of thousands I was talking about.

They’ll move on, and at the end of the day, you’ll stand alone, fancying yourself to be Tarja. You’ll die alone and it’s all your fault. We’ve been through this as well. Wow, do you see the circles I keep talking in whenever I’m writing to you? There’s nothing more. Nothing than your inability to exist in a normal way. What is normal? I don’t know, babe; all I know is not what you are.

You’re gonna be Julia Roberts in My Best Friend’s Wedding. But she had another friend, she had someone to call and rely on. You have nothing. You weaved so many patterns of deceit that there is literally nowhere to turn anymore. You’ll be the maid of honour who will have flirted and or fucked the groom. And you’ll be a maid of honour because of a lie, not because you’re friends with the bride.

No one. There’s no one who cares for you. I don’t care for you. No, I do, but I abuse you and beat you up. And you come back, like a good little Cunt. You like it when I do it, don’t you? You like when everybody else does it. You like hurting yourself, not in the physical slit-your-wrist sort of way. In the making your own life miserable. A living personal Hell.

I’m considering telling you to have children, just so the line of bad decisions doesn’t end. Just so there’s someone to watch doing this. I’ll write to them too, I just hope you have a daughter. It would be upsetting to watch a boy and eventually a man do this to himself. You know how I favour men.

Don’t ever kill yourself, you need to be the recipient of these letters. There’s no one else I’d write so passionately to.

Lots of love (none at, really),



My dear,

I missed you last night; not you cuddling me and waking me up for a bit of morning fuckery – I never had that from you after all. I missed you allowing me to rest my chin on your chest and look into your eyes as we talk about things. That was rare, and much appreciated. Fucking idiot, mysterious and all, making me stay in bed naked for hours trying to understand.

Some men turn girls into women because they offer them love and cock and cum on their tits. Just my luck that I was a lad at heart and for a few days after every time you stopped by, I would be irrational and groan at the thought that I wanted more. Fuck me, right?

But looking back, it was nothing. It is nothing. It will always be nothing. And it’s funny, because I said I’d never do that whole pinning thing again. Haha, fuck me sideways. Oh, wait. I’m writing this because I’m hyper, bordering on high and since my feelings are enhanced and all that bullshit, I need to get this off my chest. Much like cum.

I’m glad it was just a body I needed, and not you as a person, because my dear… you’re royally fucked. Do you even understand the irony of that statement? Cause I do. I’m looking at you through my lashes, and I want nothing more than to punch some sense into your stupid head. I can’t be too harsh with you, because I’ve been there and I know how you feel. But fuck it, darling. You might as well smash your head against a wall – that should hurt less.

Being a doormat is not a career choice, no matter how confused you are. It’s been the longest time since you and I were together for a brief time. I still think of you. I also pity you. You make my bipolar tendencies have a ball. You make my insides churn in both a good way and a bad way. I fucking hate you and I’d love to fuck you. Do you see what I mean?

Get a grip, my dear. When you come to your senses, you can also come see me. I’ll always kneel for you. Just because it feels that good.

If you find yourself among these lines, don’t tell me about it. No one else will know who you are. So don’t worry.

As far as I’m concerned, if your pretty eyes roll in pleasure and I get to see them… my job is done.

Lots of love (mostly lust),