Love Letter From Your Dead

I walk into the room, you look up, those fierce seconds then you look away
I first feel it in the iron in my throat, then fat splashes streak my paper. I clutch my nose, the blood pouring through my fingers. You look at me; you remember what I told The Male Shoulder and those eyes, cold.
The drugs were always there. If you loved me, you loved those illusions that had drawn about myself. And you hated drugs, you hated weed, I remember in history your righteous facts about schizophrenia. But coke – my illusion – you had no sermon. But perhaps you didn’t need to, preaching to me through coldness instead. Melting the distance, I just fuelled your hatred, your fear.
Did you fear me? Or did you pity me, did you see the lies, the shrouding, was I waving or drowning?
The necklace I gave you, the mocking Valentine poem, the letter about Self-Righteous Bitch in which a hypothetical you/me question was raised – do they mean anything to you? Like the scraps of paper of notes we scribbled in maths, the code I search for in my leaving message – that is all I have of you. But my deception was all permeating, was I ever truthful? Those notes, my lies, my life I presented to you – vivid, brightly contrasting, living somewhere between euphoria and tragedy – that’s where I wanted to be and wanted you to join me. I lived my lies so completely, I did, I believed what I said, the lies were real and you believed them. Your jealousy feeding my rage at my own failures. If these imaginary boys loved/wanted me, you would too.
Perhaps men/boys like you are integral to life. You are devastating: a year later I’m still healing. But it is not you that inflicted any real pain, it was entirely me. And yet, the pain rises in my throat, I want to cry and weep and rage and rage until – the pain is so sharp I can’t see past it. I cannot imagine living and never seeing you again or hearing your voice and yet this year I have managed. The User distracting me, school distracting me, my own logic. I need to hear your voice, so you can become 3D again. And yet I am acutely aware – I may have meant something, but now, I mean nothing.
Daisy, you have to stay in touch – walking back through the stables. I promise. And what of you? You never made any such promise, you knew I’d come back. My two texts you never replied to. Did you not receive them or am I now part of your life compartmented away? An irritating memory, disposable.
I am aware of the distinction between comforting fantasy and reality. I am comforted by my dreams. Every love song, every film, every book reminds me of my own huge failures. I’m 17 and already I feel constricted by time, to return to 14, to my years with Amy, I would change everything. Regret is futile: how can you love the unlovable? No matter what she said, she could have said anything, been anyone and you still wouldn’t have loved her. I am so tired, so very, very tired of being uncomfortable in my own skin. Of feeling, exhausted of being me. I am sick of the idea of you – you seldom comfort me, only condemn my failures, my inexperience. I pretend to be wise, experienced, and I will always have to. It is too late, this 17th year a year of intense claustrophobia, of doors closing, of regret, of loneliness and of facades and wishes. Of broken resolutions, of failed hopes, of voids and of intense regret. I made many mistakes, and there is no time. You’re a pattern repeated throughout my life.