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Thalassa, Lassi, mon amour.
Mon amour, mon amour, mon amour. I don't think I'd ever tire of uttering those words. My love. I miss you so much it feels gross. It feels wet. It feels raw. It feels fucking nauseating. Is this okay? To feel like this? No, perhaps not. You are my sin, my deceitful woman, my vampire. I'd bleed for you. I bleed for you, killing machine. I bleed for you. The crook of your neck is filled with lies, filth I snort like cocaine. Will you continue lying? Is it to keep me safe or keep me sad?
This will be my final letter to you. I am a lovely man who never knew lovely. Who will enter my kitchen and be hungry for me now? Eat my rotten fruit and drink my spoilt milk? Surely you, with the key to me. Surely you, who knows nothing of full. Surely you, who always wants more, more, more. Romance Queen, mes cœurs sont inondés. I love you. Please, I want to be enough. Tell me I'm enough, tell me you'll love all of me. Even the bad parts. Even the worst of me. Even when you're lamentable, the type morality would call wretched. You were the Devils Lady in the garden, standing six foot one in that silk gown and wine heels. My mother loved you best like that. You were Thalassa on Earth. My mother tolerated you like that. You were Lassi with friends. You were brutalized perfection at home, with parents far too greedy for being so aloof. But to me, to me, in my arms, you were always mine. Mon cœur qui bat. With your toxic fingers burning skulls in my depraved skin, the hilts of my spine, Death in their blanching wake, I've never felt more alive. So fucking alive, even if you didn't mean it. Even if you didn't mean it at all.
April 5th, 1978: (the last real moment) when you lye beside me in a princedom of untruths, and cupped my face so gently I almost believed you, I felt an undying love for you. Someone so unlovable. A monster I started rocking to sleep, started singing to. How does it feel to make me sick? When you left that morning, freshly when I begged you to fucking stay, hands cuffed me to the bed, fingers latched onto my flesh. It was melancholy. I cried. Maybe you heard me.
Danger prevails, et tu me manques, machine à tuer. I know I'm in over my head, but I've never been one to understand the complexity of one's sanity. To keep to body. I'm burning in sorrow, and I fucking miss you. Would you spare a little of your blackened heart to write me a letter? To love me back? You're aching to touch me, to ebb a warmth in the hold of my organs, to feel blood slick through webbed fingers because you were starving.
I'd give it to you if I could. All of it.
Everything keeping me tethered to life. All yours.
Lips to lips. Tongue to tongue. Teeth to teeth. Skin to skin. One last filthy kiss. One last lie. One last stop being so fucking desperate. You don't love me. I know that, I do, but with every inch of my soul, I can't accept it. I can't. I am sentenced to die in three days. I want to hear from you, a pleasant note of sorts. You're all I need to hear, in final moments to everlasting life, to know it's okay.
