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to the love of my life,
Nobody will ever understand you the way that I do—your experiences are visceral, your trauma ever-consuming, but you’re loved beyond any wild dream you’ve had. I hated you so much for far too long, and I am sorry. You didn’t deserve it, you’re outside of the norm and that is a means to success rather than to hopelessness. Your family criticized you relentlessly, compartmentalized it into a section of your brain—I know you’re haunted by their voices, and I know it is sickening to say it makes you… “better”… but you have something not a lot of people have. You’re fearless after two decades of hiding away, they wanted to keep you inside for your “protection” which was the catalyst for your destruction.
You died over and over again, you put yourself back together when nothing was left. I don’t know how you do it, or how much longer you will be able to—I will be proud of you till your inevitable death caused by this hopeful yet reckless behavior.
I love you. I’m sorry you were born with pain and every strike against your skin after that made the wires holding you together come out of place. I’m sorry that you crave these beatings now, after so many years the heat of chaos soldered together your pain and pleasure. I know it is hard to come to terms with this, but your soulmate is a figment of your imagination. They’re not here, and this is why you are nothing but a toy to man. And there are worse things to be. Please get out soon.