dearest,
i feel certain that i am going mad again.
my hands become blades which tear me apart piece by piece.
i feel certain that i cannot endure the madness again
i am no longer tender
i am no longer pure
and i long no more for this place's alleged pleasures.
which is why i have to tell you: i dont think two people could be as happy as we have been.
but the madness is controlling me.
and i must keep plucking parts of me, pieces of me,
as if i was a hideous bloom that simply deserves to stop being.
a strand of my hair falls onto the floor,
along with the skin that i pick,
and the blood that i harvest.
i am so terribly sorry i could not get better for you. i know you needed it.
there is not much of me left, and,
soon,
hopefully,
i will be nothing but dust bunnies on the corners of empty houses.