Dear Miss X
I desperately want your love. I won’t love you back, I’m afraid. I’m far too selfish for that besides after a time you will begin to remind me of my mother so I will be busy revolting against you running away from you. But I want you to be there to care, someone must care and you could.
When I am depressed nothing, no one exists, but nor do I exist to anyone; if you were there and I was depressed at least I would exist to you. & You would exist to me; you would be my source of depression; and I would think of women more beautiful than you, or more gay; women with whom I would be happier. Not that there probably are. But you would be someone there; a hand; a head.
You might even forgive me. I would feel remorse whilst now there is nothing to feel remorse about.
But I would break it. Break break break; I break anything precious if I’m given time enough.
Dear Miss X look out on this life of ruin, of selfishness of will. A life tied to a wheel of depressions and exhilarations, drink and moods and sex.
While there is yet time god blot out this piece of blackness and save one more Mrs X from a life long doom with one more unpleasant Mr X.
