One last honest letter scheduled to be automatically published upon my disappearance, death,or when I’ve finally given up.

I realized that I don’t actually think about you that much, at least not in a way that you would think of someone you love? Or are obsessed with? I talk about you at least several times a week? But only as an accessory to my own legend. It’s never actually about you. I was wrong when I said that for the first time in any relationship, I would consider how things would make you feel or reflect upon you. I mean, I CLEARLY didn’t, we had a few fights about that even didn’t we? That’s what the last one was about. I “joked” about not loving you anymore, and when you told me you didn’t like it, even then I didn’t get it! I only could focus on how frustrated I was that we were in yet another fight that “you had started” despite the impetus obviously, to anyone but me, stemming from yours truly, from my callousness. I think you loved me(I can’t be sure) and I felt very strongly about you but, I don’t know if you can call something like that love. I don’t know what love is, I don’t know what it is to love, I only know a violent, impatient, turbulent desire, an INSATIABLE wanting, an attachment that upon its dissolution,destroys and outright kills whatever current iteration or version of psyche, personality, or collection of identities that I would call “me” at the time of knowing and being with you, or whichever poor soul that’s found themselves in my company.

I don’t actually think about you all the time. I don’t think about what you’re wearing, and what you’re doing and who you’re doing it with. I don’t think about what friends you have, I don’t think about what you eat before you work, or what shampoo you use, or what happened in your family. (Actually, I remembered that story you told me about that person getting drunk to teach that person a lesson about their drinking the other day, but that was the only time I can recall in the last two years. I almost can’t believe that!) Sometimes I think about your eyes, actually maybe often I do. I think about how you told me people in your home country get surgery so theirs can look like yours. I think about your teeth sometimes, I liked them. I think about that box I kept everything you made me in, I regret so deeply mailing it back to you but, I don’t think I could have survived having it with me, having so many pieces of you with me. I think about the strand of hair I kept in a card sleeve, I think about your school ID, I think about the youquiz you made me take when we first met to see who in your friend group I was most like and how I got you as a result.

I’ve never thought about what you had for breakfast since we stopped being an item. I don’t think I want to know everything, I think I’ve only masturbated about you once or twice since we split, but to be fair, the memory of you only evoked despair within me until recently when everything got shut off.

Darling I set out in this letter to paint myself as honestly horrible as I am, as the nearly unfeeling psychopath you came to recognize me as but, and to be fair I don’t know myself very well. Whatever “myself” is, is so often changing, and in flux, and inconsistent, and contradictory. But— okay honesty, honest to goodness honesty: I’m entirely self centered, I drive myself mad with internal conversations almost exclusively about me, the nature of me, the conflict of me, all my voices etc etc. I lie, I cheat, I steal, Im selfish, Im a pervert, Im greedy, Im hateful,spiteful,vengeful, I think about killing and eating people like all the time, just now at the pub, I was standing there to pay for my steak and this young guy standing next to me, clearly high out of his mind- ordered a jack and coke. He was having a nice time and trying to pay for his drink meanwhile I, next to him, was toying with a spoon and thinking about jamming it into his eye socket because— I was afraid. I was afraid of him, because he was an inebriated man in close proximity. Okay— I have like, a couple of actually identifiable emotions I can actually feel, I get angry, I feel disgust, spite, disdain, maybe these are all the same thing. I feel FEAR, a deep, foreboding, dread, true actual fear every single day. Maybe constantly. I feel despair. Words cannot describe the despair I am drenched in through every single second of every day. I don’t experience joy, no happiness, the closest thing to that is momentary relief- when I get a break from those other things. It’s those other things and relief. Really looking at it, being sincerely and genuinely true about it all, every positive emotion I’ve ever experienced is actually just relief, momentary peace. Not that you should care or reach out to me or feel bad for me or anything but, I think besides that, despite me having no clue what it feels like, I think in my own inadequate fucked up way I actually did and maybe even still do love you.

I don’t think about all those things but I do hope you’re doing well, I hope you’re successful, I hope you’re happy, I hope you have good friends and good lovers, I hope nice things happen to you. Sincerely, actually, even or especially without me as any part of your life. Entirely outside of me.

Oh man Im thinking about you outside of me— imagine that huh?

If you decide to be with anyone ever, I hope its with someone better, someone healthy, kind, generous, rich even.

Oh baby, oh man…

I wont go so far as to say that maybe I was capable of love in my lifetime, and that I loved you.

I truly cannot say it with confidence, I can’t say it and believe, or know it to be true, but the possibility exists because of you.

Thank you for that.

I have given up on everything. Everything in the world, everything in my life. I feel myself, my personhood, my personality, my proclivities being erased. There is almost nothing inside me, and as the days go by, that nothing becomes less and less of a nothing. I have always been a shell of a person and it is the case even more so now, but— I was going to say something like “Ill always have” or “the memory of you” or “that i was able to love, because of you, will always linger”

That didn’t really feel true, or honest or whatever.

The truth, the truth the truth lets see….

I don’t sincerely experience guilt or remorse, sometimes I get stressed out about the potential consequences of my actions were I to be caught or punished for them, but not enough to actually prevent me from doing or saying whatever it may be.

But, (and sure, partly because of the destruction it has wreaked upon me, my mind, my well being) if I broke your heart, or caused you distress of any sort, Im actually genuinely really sorry.

I know I am because,I believe that to be “sorry” for something means to vow or regret it enough to never do it again.

I have not let myself have anyone since you.

I will never inflict myself or my “love” upon anyone ever again.

I will never bruise, let alone break another heart.

As much as I am capable of truth,

I’m sorry, I love you.

Post script

Darling I don’t know if any of this is true, but I want it to be. Im in hell, trapped within my own mind. I would do and give anything to be resting my head in your lap, twilit beams dancing upon my eyelids. That would be heaven to me.

It’s always during twilight you know. Anything I fantasize about, yearn for, dream of, its always during then, just right before sunset.