Thirteen

My dear,

Thirteen is such a beautiful number. A one and a three. Look at this amazing geometry: 13. Look at the complementary shapes, the way they curve and cater to the line. Alternatively, it is ten and three. So what people would give you and then what people would give me, respectively. I was called a seven and a half once. I like to think you would have told them off.

That’s the problem with me, my dear. I like to think a lot. More often than not, these are thoughts that run so wildly, so untamed, and are so flawed in their very existence. I fail to see that; instead I latch on to them and after a while they are rooted in my brain like centuries old trees.

In my ninth letter, I wrote to you and said that I want to see you smile again. I said I wanted you to be incredibly handsome in your inner peace, with a smirk to match that beautiful mind of yours. I believe you’re happy now. I believe you laugh and you live and I’m pleased. Your name comes up in my head sometimes when it’s hit four am and I can’t sleep at all. I think of your voice, the way it folded down from your tongue. I want to kiss your voice when it flows from above me down onto my breasts.

I’ve been hurting recently. I’ve been aching in the pit that is my bed, this abyss of hopelessness that you once put a lid on for a couple of hours. I’ve been sinking quietly and I manage to pull myself out enough to breathe. I like to think that if you could, you’d hold me when the nightmares get to me, or when the loneliness gets too lonely. I like to think you wouldn’t hurt me like this and I like to think you’d smile when you look at me the first thing in the morning.

I like to think one day I’ll find you again and I’ll grab your face and tell you that I love you and that we should definitely go for a drink. I like to think about our wedding and how drunk we’d both be, pretending for the sake of both our fathers who would skin us if they knew. (They will.) I like to think about your eyes, the way they sparkle when you talk about something you care about. I like to think about your chin on my shoulder and your smile next to mine.

I like to think I won’t be lonely tonight, but as it is with everything else, I’m wrong about this as well.

I hope you’re happy and devastatingly handsome in your happiness,

More love than lust,

Jo.

Twelve

Dear Cunt,

It’s been a while. I wanted to write to you so many times. I wanted to call you, but wouldn’t that be redundant as fuck? I wanted to crawl on top of a building, bloodied and battered and yell, but wouldn’t that be redundant as fuck? So many things have happened, and you know about them all. Sometimes I talk to you and in the mostly-quiet of the night, you fail to answer, tongue twisted in sailor knots that I could never learn properly. My father tried to teach me once, but I refused everything that came from him then. I refused to learn how to dance to traditional folk music. He didn’t try that hard, he mentioned it once when he was preparing to go fishing.

I want to say it had been a Hollywood moment, one of those Jeff Bridges would play in a shit film that bombed at box office and people would only watch because it was four p.m. six years later and it was a Saturday and there was nothing else to watch. A Hallmark moment on a decent screen without a bra and a cup of tea. It wasn’t. He looked at me and asked me if I wanted to know. I said no then, because I was eleven and I hated him. He never asked again, and I never showed any interest in it.

I miss my father sometimes. I think I miss him more than I actually do. I miss the idea I have in my head that grows over months and when enough time has passed, it builds itself into a screen that covers reality. So I miss whatever my mind draws up as a potential reality. I get that with everyone. I miss my mother enough to call her and then she picks up and more often than not, a certain mood will make me want to drown myself.

I thought I’d ask for help but help is a long way to go and help is help if I see it as help. This is not a whore is a whore is a whore, this is help is help but only if I allow it to be help which means that help is my dom in this non-sexual bit of relationship and ultimately I have the control. Such a fucking bad idea, to give me the choice. I’m going for it though.

You know what hurts? More than loving someone to the point where you would fight dealers to get them crack and then cut your thighs because you’re feeding their addiction? Someone loving you enough that they live disappointment to a whole new level. (I can currently hear someone faking an orgasm and it’s making me want to shoot them.) The idea that someone entrusted you with their beliefs, not in a higher power but exactly as much as you can supposedly carry is terrifying. I wouldn’t have it any other way, but it makes me dry heave. A lot of things do these days.

Do you seat your parents down and come out as a long-time, probably forever depression victim?

Cause mine are rarely in the same room. And people blame me for wanting a marriage with a husband who’s not home. They’re still married almost thirty-six years later, so it’s cool. I only have to endure a midlife crisis four times and not even from me but from my partner.

“How often would you say you think about suicide?”

“What’s often?”

“So, self-harm…”

“So, football.”

Recently someone told me they couldn’t make it through one of my texts. They said it was too long, and they tried but it was just endless and they didn’t have the time. I wish I had the balls to tell them what that meant for me, but they won’t read this so it’s safe. I know how shit some of my writing is, gratuitously telling me so won’t change it. It will make me write these pieces of shit that they won’t be able to read because my writing is too much, too poetic, too bland, and too whatever.

I don’t write for them, but why would you tell me?! It’s not like this was constructive criticism, it’s just being mean.

Speaking of mean, I find myself carrying echoes in my mind even more than my thoughts. A constant one is that of the not being on top. Another is that of my being able to do nothing, taking up too much space on the sofa, feeling bad about tampons, pads, anything. Cool, man. It’s cool.

(It’s really not cool.)

This is not a lamenting piece of writing. I’m not looking for pity. I’m not looking for anything other than playing with toys at the age of five in a room with adults who admired my tenacity at a young age.

I got excuses instead, and books. Books are cool. A stable environment might have been a great thing, though.

Lots of love (none of all really),

Jo (Ioana).

Eleven

My baby E,

For someone doing a writing course, this is surprisingly difficult to put on paper. Or blog. You know what I mean. I’ll blame the library computers for it. I can almost hear you saying “you dildo” to this. I can always hear you saying all sort of things in my head. I’m really glad you exist, so I can complain about how annoying it can get. Especially when I’m about to kiss that guy you said “No” about literally five minutes before. I’m really glad you exist, because schizophrenia with your voice in my head would be the worst.

I’m cheesy as fuck, blame it on my ovulation or potential pregnancy or whatevs. Blame it on the fact that you left me fifteen minutes ago because “Lidl shuts at 10”. Blame it on how lonely I feel, or how typing on this positively ancient keyboard echoes more than that one guy who always wanks in the library. Blame it on how much I love you and us. Blame it on whatever the fuck you want, as long as you accept it as valid.

I pray to whatever god I invent and believe in for the day that whatever we have, if it’s friendship, or love, or lust or the stuff of soulmates, I pray it doesn’t end. I pray I won’t fuck it up. I pray you won’t ever grow to hate me. I pray I will be a good enough person for you to always want in your life. I hope we can overcome anything and everything there will be to overcome. I pray we’ll always be like this, complete and utter balls dickheads.

If I could take all this feeling and bottle it up, I wouldn’t let anyone use it as a perfume, because it’s mine and mine alone. And you make it happen. Together with the frustrating moments when you’re just unreasonable and horrible, and I want to smack you and tell you I’m pretty and that’s all that you should care about.

If I could draw it for you, I would. If I could write it more accurately than this, I would. This feeling, this entire thing my heart does, when it hurts when you’re hurting; all this, this is now embedded into who I am as a person. Congratulations. You are in me. And not in a way everyone else has been in me, but in a deep (ha haa) meaningful way. There’s a reason the second we meet up I want to tell you everything, even if you’re tired or moody. I want you to know, because you validate me in a nonjudgmental way. Because you are everything I want and fear I’ll fuck up.

I’ve had this love before, baby. I’ve had it and it scares the shit out of me that one day it won’t be there anymore. Every single time you go passive aggressive, I get this feeling in my gut, like my entire life just drains away. And then I tell myself I can fix it. I can make it better. You can’t possibly understand what you mean to me, and how important this shit is.

And then there’s the fucking small things and the not so small things. I could write a book with our fucking stupid trips to anywhere really, and the way you knew I was upset so you bought me a perfume, because you knew I was completely out. And the lipstick, and the food, holy shit the fucking food. All of the food. And just the fact that you are tall enough that my tits fit perfectly under yours. And the way you do my hair, and use my shower and my shampoo (remind me to buy some, by the way). And that time on your birthday you wrote with a sharpie on my leg, which in turn meant that I shaved when I was drunk and long story short, I’ll have a scar that I’m gonna name after you. Speaking of which, the baby names. And dick talk and the way you just know what to do.

There are so many things I could be describing here, including the background of the endless lists of quotes I have everywhere. Just so no one forgets, “I can’t believe you hi-ed Gerard”.

But two particular things come to mine, and fuck off yeah, you made me tear up in the library. You said the most beautiful thing in the world yesterday, when you were using us as an example. Sidetracking, we are so married, it’s ridiculous. Like, we use our fucking friendship as an example for a functional relationship, which is astonishing, given our levels of co-dependency. But yeah, you said “If anyone took Jo away from me, I don’t know what I would do.” And I might have played it cool, and kissed the side of your neck and called you an idiot and whatnot, but every time I stop to think about something, I hear that in the back of my head. And it makes me happy, and it scares me as well, because you know how I’m not used to receiving gifts and have someone love me back in the same way and with the same intensity.

And then your fucking dream, and how fucking mental you have to be to dream that thing, complete with psychopath trying it on with me (check), and flying my fucking family there. But dreaming I was murdered wasn’t half as fucking heartbreaking as you not allowing my mum to take me to Romania, because this is my home, you said. And you taking my fucking ashes to Scotland, because Scotland is my fucking spirit animal. And your speech, and I don’t even care if you didn’t want people to know all this, because I am so overwhelmed someone cares about me like this. I am so desperately anxious and happy and terrified and proud.

I love you so much it makes me want to cuddle you at all times, while we eat pizza and doughballs (and you have milk, you freak what even) and watch shit on youtube.

And listen to Nicki Minaj, because we’re tasteless whores.

“You’re pretty!”

“You’re right!”

All of my love, drinks and Marlboros,

Jo

 

Ten

My love,

It’s been six years since we met. I’m sorry I didn’t get to write to you on the day, but you always said I should go and smile more often. Yeah, well fuck you. Congratulate me, I only had three panic attacks on Friday, I seriously think I’m getting better. It’s so surreal to think I’m growing old and you aren’t. It’s makes my skin crawl and my heart soar. It’s the sort of feeling you get when you forget something and you don’t know what it is, so the information just stays at the back of your head, waiting, prodding and making you want to to claw at your brain and get it out.

The age difference between the two of us was so beautiful. It made me feel safe and it made you feel… well, illegal is one way of putting it. I miss you, my love. I miss you every day and every breathing moment – that presence of the back of your head. I keep thinking what life would be if I stayed home that night. If I read a book instead. If I didn’t put stilettos on, or if I left home earlier.

I like to think I would have met you at some point. The sort of blind, almost religious love we shared is impossible to avoid, and I like to think that I would have met you a month or a year later. I like to think that things would have been different, and maybe you’d be here with me to celebrate the day we met.

If you can hear my thoughts, or read my words, or even remotely know anything about my life, you must fucking hate how much it all revolves around you. The same words, the same feelings, over and over again. Surely you can’t stand it anymore.

You shouldn’t have gone then, my love.

Always,

Jo.

Nine

My dear,

When I met you, you were extraordinarily handsome. We shook hands and I couldn’t help my smile: the weird, one corner upper than the other, my cheekbones more exclusive than usual. A raised eyebrow, because you trained your eyes on my left one, and it felt like you could read my the little barcode on the back of my brain, scan it and I would have to pay. You’d make sure of it. You see, it was a sort of I want to break free, because your hair shone in the shitty light, and it made me want to touch it. I’d seen you before but your bright eyes never caught mine. Then you spoke and I swear I was gone. The only way that could have been more poetic was if I had balls and dropped a hand to readjust. Alas, no.

When I met you, my dear, you were laughing. You were carefree and had such a beautiful filthy soul. You could drag me to and through hell. I like to think that if  I were her, you would have. I wasn’t, so you settled. Once. Twice. Again. Then a maybe, a nipple twist, a loose button, a drink, a hug, a quick word. Again. It was all over the place; we were all over the place. I was trying to love you and you had always loved her.

We bonded over that. I whispered the hate, you laughed with me. It was almost normal life, if I hadn’t been so fascinated, so unbelievably needy.

I can fix you. You know I can fix you. I can put the pieces back together. I can help. I want to. The deal would not be the blessed ten years, it would be you giving me what I need. Could you? Could you give me all I need so that I wouldn’t stray? Could you fucking love me like you love her?

I’m used to being people’s other one. I’m used to watch and judge and laugh and hurt a little when I see the people whose other I am with their loved one. You don’t love someone that much if you stray, do you? I like the cynical side of it. I like it because it’s real. It’s what reality means: you date or marry or promise or whatever the fuck you want, your loved one – the one you love the most, the most important person in your life -, well… they stray. They go and fuck that other one. They do it again, and again, and again, they invest; and not money, that’s the rookie version. No, they invest feelings, and they care, and still… they come home to you. Look you in the eye when they come inside you. They tell you they love you. But if they did, why look for something else? Why stray? They don’t love you. Not the same way they love the other. You’re a nice armchair they like to relax in every now and then.

Excuse me, my dear. I seem to have ranted quite a bit. You know I do that. But yes, if you could give me everything I need, I wouldn’t stray. Why do that? Do you understand how important this deal is? What have I told you every single time we spoke? I don’t date. I don’t commit. I don’t care. Well, shit.

Cause you make me do. Cause I want you to be okay. I want you to laugh and be incredibly handsome again, carefree and with a beautiful soul.

I’ll kiss it better.

Part lust and part love,

Jo.

Eight

Dear baby,

God – and I say god loosely – willing, you won’t be mine. Hopefully you won’t inherit my inept genes, my lack of composure, my family’s issues, my stubborn nature. Hopefully there won’t be a chance for that. Hopefully you will belong to someone else. In an ideal world, you wouldn’t have to call me mother. You wouldn’t have to love me most. I’d be your favourite woman outside of your mother, but you will not answer to me. This will be your blessing and your curse, you see.

I’ll be the haven you hop on the bus to reach; you’d call me on your way, sometimes sobbing, telling me you need to see me. I’d wait for you  on the doorstep, cigarette lit and cup of coffee in one hand, the other extended in a silent invitation for a hug. You’d come in, sit down at the kitchen table, and reach for my cigarettes. I’d ask you if you were pregnant or if you got someone pregnant. You’d scoff, do I think so little of you? Well, baby, I helped bring you up, I know your mother. The odds are not in your favour. No, you’d say your mum’s stupid and a whore and a slut and whatever, and I’d have to agree, because I know that better than anyone else. The odds are I slept with her too.

I’d have to call your mum. She’d sigh and say she hates that you’re sixteen, and she doesn’t remember being so stupid when she was your age. I’d laugh at her and tell her we were even more idiotic. She’d naturally deny it. I’d ask for you to spend the night, and she’d be fucking relieved because she cannot stand your tantrums. She’d send you love and promise to pay me back. You were right, baby, your mother’s a stupid bitch. You’d be hungry and I’d cook for you. Steak and chips. We’d watch Thor 1 and 2 and 3 and 4, and you’ll say Tom Hiddleston gets hotter with age, and I’d be proud to have helped bring you up, if that is what you get out of it.

Baby, you don’t understand how much I love you. How glad I am you’re your mother’s, and not mine. How glad I am you have her beautiful eyes, or her height, or her lovely fingers, or her intellect. How I might have slept with your father too, but you’re not ready to know that either. One day, I promise. I’d take you out for dinner and people would say I’m either corrupting young girls with my perverted mind (which I am doing, yes, thank you very much), or got a new boy toy. I’d laugh and tell you about a date I had. You’d tell me you don’t understand why I never married. You say that a lot, actually. I’d roll my eyes and repeat my answer. I’m scared of marriage. You’d praise me for being brave enough to admit it. I’d call you a little shit and remind you I potty trained you while your mother was away, all those afternoons. I watched you accidentally licking your own snot in your sleep. You have no right to be so patronising. You’d smirk – you take that after your father. You’d say you love winding me up, and I promise that once you’re of age, I’ll let you wind me up even more. You laugh and tell me I’m a sick old woman. I’d stick my tongue out.

You’d ask me for whiskey and against my better judgment, I’d pour you some. You’d say I have good taste and I’d remind you that everything you know about drinking, you know from me. Your parents are both lightweights. That’s how you were born. They never told you that you were conceived in the back seat of my bloody car. I’d tell you that and make you promise never to have sex in that car. History repeats itself and I’m not ready to look after your children as well. You’d ask me if I never did it in my car. I’d laugh. I was lucky to escape pregnancy. I’d never tell you luck never had anything to do with it.

When you’d fall asleep, it would be in my arms, while we were watching some awesome anime I used to like when I was your age. You’d snore lightly and I’d kiss your hair. There are no words to how much I love you, baby. How much you are part of me, despite not being mine. How I will always be there for you, how I’ll get strippers on your 18th birthday, how I will take you to get a tattoo come summer, how I would do anything for you. How you are the best thing that happened to me. How your second name was my choice. How when I finally die, you inherit my entire porn collection. How I want you to be a writer, just to make me proud.

When we wake up, stiff and in pain, you get up and make me bacon and toast, coffee and tea – just how I like it.

I pray to what I can you will not be mine.

All my heart, my books, and my whiskey,

Auntie Jo.

Seven

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),

Jo.

Six

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.

Please.

We scratched and hurt each other’s growing pains.

Please.

Please.

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.

Please.

I’ll be waiting.

My all and everything more than that,

Jo – the one love you never finished.

Five

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),

Jo.

Four

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),

Jo.