To my dearest, my light.

Not for your eyes only, but for your eyes is it for.

Let them see. I have something to tell you.

...

I am terribly frightened of you. Your voice would haunt me, but I admit I have begun to forget. Your voice, and your laughter. Flickers of memory that linger just out of reach. Do not mistake my words for poetry. I am not so grieved by the external parts as a poet might be. My heart, however, lies not wounded but struck dead in its beating. Cruel is my tongue, for even as I whisper sweet words to you now, this same flame has burned you with lies. I am burdened by this. Not just burdened, for do not think for a moment that I weep for a weight to my body. I cannot breathe. I cannot speak. I cannot even shed a single, worthless tear for I have cried myself to sickness.

You should not forgive me, for even now I do not forgive myself. This shame, this loathing, this hatred is a dagger turned on mine own breast. But I dare not carve out my heart. For it is not mine. It is yours. It has been. It will be. Fate may have her way with my soul but my love forever belongs to you. I say not these words in jest. This writing is artful, yes, because a fantasy makes a pill such as this much easier to swallow.

Let the world see. Small world, for beyond these walls of cyber code is a vast span of water and land that acts as a rift between us. Let those who listen hear me. I no longer care. I love you too much to breathe, to scream, to laugh, to ever live as I once lived.

Speak to me once more. Carve my heart from me with your tongue and choke me with your hatred until it matches mine own for myself. Even if the last words you ever speak to me are a list of what I have done. Even if the last words I ever hear from you are how badly you wish me dead. All the disappointment you feel for me is but a drop in the ocean of what I feel for myself.