Dearest B,
You showed me something about how life is, how the surface can open up under you and take you in whole, then close again and it can be as if you never were. Now I live underground and I can't hate you but I don't feel grateful to you for showing me how life can sometimes eat you alive. I've slept until sleep seems like waking, and waking seems like sleep. It's never been my style to miss anyone too much. I don't worship gods or men, I worship literature and a sharp wit.
You can't just suddenly come back into my life, you can't kill your lover and then blame it on the moon. You can't do this. I can't take it. Your lover is dead and gone. Does it give you pleasure to cause me suffering? I was doing so well, I was gaining the weight back. I was becoming unlike my Bubby and the starving females in my family tree.
Now after just one hand written letter, after just two days I've found myself relying on the emotional numbness that comes from my stomach clawing inside me like a wild feline in a sack. We're both monsters, we're never really where we are, we're only in our own heads. It's not what people tell us it is, it's ugly and it's cold and we're mostly cold and dead inside.
I can't take the darkness that wells up between us. I can't be in that place or I'll end up just like you. I don't want to be afraid to be vulnerable anymore. I just keep wondering how can you DARE to pretend you love me?
Please go away. I don't have the strength to say no anymore.