My Dearly Beloved,

...it's been a long time since my last letter, hasn't it? I suppose so: over a year now, since I have sought comfort from writing to you, knowing that no matter what I do, what I say, you will never write back. There's a sad, sick obsessive quality to that, but I can't stop: at least I know that if I type to you, in some way, I can pretend you are listening to me. No one wants to listen to me anymore.

My heart is broken, beloved, beyond anyone's physical ability to repair. I feel useless, worthless, in this world where I am said I am loved, I am appreciated. People fear me more than they care to say and they send me back into the dark shadows of my mind when they scream at me. They never seem to realize they have no need to put down my self-esteem: I lost it so long ago, I no longer remember what it feels like to be real. To be human. I believe I'm turning into a monster.

I used to be a monster, didn't I? I think I was, a long time ago. I didn't care what people thought or how I felt or how they felt. I was a blank space that longed to be filled, and I was filled by the negative emotions of the people surrounding me. My heart has rotted because of this, because of them, and I hate them for it. I hate them in ways that no one will understand, because I do not understand them, myself. I hate them and I want them to die, but at the same time, I wish death upon no one. Death is not able to depart from this world, not so easily as being harmed or maimed. Cut off a person's head and sew fast enough, they might live a few more minutes. I do not want people to die, and yet I dream of being the one to murder them. I dream of kissing my fingertips, coated in slick, copper-tasting red, in those moments when my dreams turn from monsters I fear, and I wake up screaming from them because I have become the monster in them. I do not want to be a monster!

This writing...it's sloppy. I...I should perhaps write something more. Something elsewhere. I...Yes. I'll...I'll do this. I'll write elsewhere, in a place the world can see. I'll write elsewhere, beloved...elsewhere...

NO! No...no. I will not write elsewhere. I'll write here. I will write in this ink that is coal-black, not in the fine, crimson ink I wish I could have. I refuse to do that, I refuse. I will not be the monster, I will not be the villain. I will make you proud, beloved, even though I have already failed you. I swore I would not love another after you, but I've done that. My heart was fickle. I dated a man who lied to me, I broke a heart, and I dated a boy who hurt me in ways that, while not physical, will forever leave marks on my soul. Yes, I have already failed you, broken so many promises I swore I would keep. How you must hate me, how you must loathe me, for the things I have done. If you still breathed, you would find me repulsive. You would hate me for becoming this weak, spineless thing that I am, and you would laugh at me. I am not the boy you once knew.

I wonder if I ever was that boy. That boy who loved to trace beautiful patterns in your skin with a knife - can you still feel them? I still bear the scar you gave me, right above my heart, always pulsing with every beat. I trace it whenever I feel lonely. I have the ring you gave me, three blood-red rubies set into gold, hanging on a chain about my neck. I grab hold of it whenever I feel the sting of rejection, for it reminds me that someone loved me, once. Do you love me still, knowing what I am, seeing me with your angel eyes that see all? Would you still be with me, would we be married? Would you understand if we ever drifted apart? Would you ever love me as you once did?

I don't know. I can no longer be sure of anything, beloved: not even you, the boy I love the most in the world. I cannot be sure of relationships - romantic, family, casual, friendships - as I have been betrayed in them far too often as of late. Abusive lovers, siblings that threaten me with abandonment, a possible crush who might become nothing more than that, people whom I thought were friends leaving me in a cloud of dust...If relationships of any kind are built upon trust, how can I ever trust anyone? Everything has crumbled around me. The food and drink turns to ash in my mouth, and I find myself held in despair...

I wish you were here, beloved. I wish I could hold you in my arms. I wish I could kiss you and have you take away my pain. I wish you were here with me, in my bed, beneath these crimson sheets. You would be wearing white, white like the angel you are, the angel you have always been, and you with slither in without a sound. I would be struck mute at the sight of you, and when you kissed me I would tangle my fingers in your hair and thread an arm around your waist, all in a desperate attempt to keep you with me. You would smile against my lips and straddle my waist, grinding your ass against my pelvis. I would break the kiss to let out a needy moan - oh, how needy I could be only for you - and you would attack my neck, leaving little bites and kisses, your body still moving in such wonderful ways. I would not let that stand - for am I not a dominate? - and would undress you, hurriedly, oh, so hurriedly, but far too slow for my tastes. You would smile in amusement - did I always amuse you so when I was anxious to feel you? - and trace your fingers across my chest, perhaps even brushing over your mark. You'd whisper that I was going to fast and I would say that I'm going too slow because I want you, and you would laugh because I was never this eager whenever we did have a chance together, the ability to make a life with one another. Our lips would meet again after I removed your shirt and my hands would head for your back first, slowly moving from the curve that lead to your ass up, up, up to the middle of your spine. There they would move apart and trace the area that was the reverse of your chest and I would break us apart again to whisper, "Where are your wings?"

You would blush and ask me what I was speaking about, and I would smile and kiss you again, insisting, "Your wings. You're an angel, aren't you? They have wings." You'd say you are no angel but I would silence you with a kiss, not wanting to hear such blasphemous things. You would readily respond to me and I would take the moment to send my hands back down to your waist, all the while feeling your hands creep down my sides to my own, fingering the thin boxers I had worn to bed. If you could speak, perhaps you would have said something about how immodest I was, but I would never let you speak, would never let you go again. Your hand would drift beneath my waistband and I would let loose a gasp when it would brush over my dick, already responding thanks to the movement of your body. You'd smile and wrap your hand around me and I would squirm - it's been such a long time since I have even wanted the warmth of another body, and to have that warmth belong to you would send me into throes of pleasure never before obtained. That would make you laugh and you would tell me to stay down as your lips left mine and moved to kiss my neck, brushing over the sensitive spot on the left side of it, causing me to whine ever so slightly. You always have been so sadistic - people think I was the sadist, but in truth, whenever it came to you, I would always be whatever you wanted. I couldn't be anything more or less than whatever you said, I couldn't do anything more or less than you said I could. You were everything to me, all I had, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, tears are blurring these damn letters, these words, I can't see without you and I can feel you kissing down my neck now and I'm crying, crying, crying...

...I'm sorry. That...was uncalled for. A break-down in the middle of your letter. Forgive me...where was I...? Oh. Yes...your lips...carressing my neck...you were always so gentle, you know...so sweet...so sure and yet so uncertain...Your hand wrapped around me, rubbing as you moved down, low, your tongue flicking out at irregular intervals to tease me with a promise of things to come. I sigh now to remember it and I feel the soft silk of your hair as it tickles my flesh, a promise that can never be anymore. How I wish it could. I would do and give everything for you to be here, to hold me, for you to be kissing me as my imagination tells me. I growl in warning at your playfulness and you chuckle low under your breath, knowing that you're getting the response you want. It makes you all the more excited and you make a noise that has me almost to the point of begging. "Please...please...I want you...I need you...please..."

"Do you want me," I can hear you whisper, and I whimper at the thought. I love you when you're like this, even when you aren't here: you're not here, you're not here, you will never be here, but I keep imagining your mouth kissing me, I feel you giving me open mouth kisses, I feel you here but it's all in my mind...

...

...

...

...I'm sorry. I've just re-read everything I wrote and...found myself excited. Forgive me for it, beloved. I didn't message you for this. I didn't write this all out to have some sexual fantasy. I have more than enough of those every day, every hour, every minute when I feel alone. Every moment when you aren't here with me, I feel the crushing need to hold someone close and pretend, just for a moment, that it's you. That it's you kissing me, you touching me, you saying and wishing that you're my one and only, that you're the special one, that you, you alone can make me feel like this...

I hate myself for feeling like this and I hate myself for not wanting this and I...I don't know anymore, beloved. Sometimes, life makes no sense. Sometimes life decides to screw with you in ways you never imagined it would. I never imagined life would be cruel enough to take you from me. But Fate gave us three almost-perfect months, which I will cherish for the remainder of my life. Fate gave me a longer relationship the next time: nearly two years. And then, the last one...seven months. Seven beautiful months filled with pain, love, and any attempt to try and make it last. And then I was foisted away...

...this letter has gotten far too long. I'm sorry...I...I should stop. I will stop...I...I'm not good. I should stop this. I'm going to stop this. I...I'll stop. I will stop. I'll stop. I'll stop. I will stop...

...If only I can focus enough to leave your memory behind...

...that will never happen, though...

...because I cannot forget...

...and I cannot forgive.

...I love you...

Forever.