You probably can't hear me, because I took a blowtorch to my voicebox, and I've practised asphyxiating myself, because that is the only thing I can do to please you.

I'm your malleable ghost: I'm the puppet that you control, you make me alive. When you kissed me, it tasted like acid rain. When I kissed you, it really was. It was just like those alcoholic afternoons when we lay, in eachother's arms and in eachother's rooms. I hope you realise that the scars you left me with back then are still beautiful to me. Sometimes I pick at them, and the flow of blood allows me to remember you, except that all I picture is your face atop the body of a cobra. You spit at me, you bite. I'll take the poison, so it can course through my bilious veins and flow through this pen, onto paper and back to you.

I remember I once said "who needs self-esteem when you're alone?" When I was with you, I was alone. I was the most breakable toy you ever dreamed of. I lied when I said I hated you, because I hated myself too much to spare any emotion. Still the same old, selfish me. Don't even pretend you want to understand, or that you ever tried to sympathise. You always made me shallow, cheered me up and dragged me away from my divine agony, where I feel content.

Wherever I am reading this now, Part of me will always be in my dark room, listening to Joy Division or the Smiths by the light of a muted television. I'm glad you've gone, I softly tell the floor. Words, you see, mean nothing here, because only bile escapes my tired lips. Embracing you always took my breath away, in the same way that being on fire does. I remember when you were my fire, but your destructive heat gave me brain damage and ripped me open to expose the grey mist that is all this frame holds.

I hope that the bile and vomit of my words frightens you, in the same way that your unconditional love terrified me. Your laugh was like barbed wire. It was my scream, back when we were inseparable. I was burning away to become part of you, and I only smiled because it made my muscles hurt.

I never promised much, because I never lived up to my own chronically low expectations, so how could I break myself enough to live up to yours? Solipsism was comforting, in my dark room. Trying to be what you wanted made me alone whenever I was with you. When we held hands, you wrenched my palm open and sucked away who I was. Lying on your golden bed of nails, I have to recover in time for you to vivisect me again. Every second I spent with you was like an autopsy. When you were at your best, I was blacking out because you never gave me anaesthetic. The bleeding morsels of my face still formed a smile.

Please promise to forget me. I really was in love with you, you see, but then I realised what you had turned me into and my whole impression of you became very different. My feelings are not entirely directed at you, and I know you did nothing wrong in your eyes.

You won't understand any of this, and you won't care. You'll be glad. You'll think I am deluded, but if I wasn't deluded, how would I live?

I live on memories of our time, well-spent together in the smoke.