Jaded. My eyes chase their reflection. They become lost within each other, and I wander down the endless tunnel of my eyes. There is light at the end of this tunnel perhaps, but I will never reach it. The ground and the sky are gray, but the walls are painted with pictures of you. There is no sun in the dark world of my eyes, but the paintings of you give it warmth. I can see you now, but I can walk no further. I beg for you, but you turn away.
Helpless. I have stepped outside of my mind and into reality; it slaps me across the face. Alone in a room filled with people â€“ I watch you, I hear you. Like a goddess bathing in a river of silk, you look in my direction – but our eyes do not connect – yours go by me, identifying me as the desperate filth that I am. You pass me in the corridor, I breathe deeply, tasting your sweet smell. All of the flowers in the world could not be so satisfying. Like the song of a thousand birds on a spring morning, your voice awakens something within me, but this pleasure I intake only for the short moment you pass. Your beauty is such that I would wish to be blind if I could not see you, and your song such that I could breathe it instead of air. You leave, and I have had my fix for now.
Pathetic. You consume all of my thoughts; I am infatuated with you. I enact conversations with you, asking you out for dinner, pretending to be interesting, witty, charming, amusing. I have spent so many days and nights thinking of you, the time has come to act upon these feelings. You are sitting at your table in the crowded room as I approach you. The endless hours of preparation for this moment flash before my eyes. I purse my lips to break your conversation, but no words come out. You’re staring at me now, startled, confused. In a fit of dismay, the world turns dark and I collapse in your lap.
Rejected. The deafening scream you let out as I passed out on top of you attracted the attention of the entire room. I woke up in the gutter – bloody and beaten. I don’t blame you, in fact, I am glad I wasn’t conscious to witness my humiliation. I haven’t seen you for weeks; the thought of another confrontation makes me ill. I write you pages and pages of poetry, but I never send it. I dream of what may have happened had I asked you out, not once in the thousands of scenarios I have created have you accepted my invitation. I can still picture your absolute splendor in my mind, your heart-pounding scent, and your soothing voice. O yes, your soft touch, just as I imagined it would be, the gentle hands of a goddess. I write letters, dream poetry and paint frescos for you, but you will never see them. I have become obsessed.
Brutal. It has becomes clear my infinite love for you will never be mutual. The knife is cold in my hand, but colder in my mouth. The bittersweet taste of steel and blood reminds me of you. The knife is cold in my hand, but colder on my chest. The smell of thick blood reminds me of you. The knife is cold in my hand, it is whispering to me. The pool of blood runs like your heart runs from me. The knife it smiles. The pain I feel now is incomparable to the pain you have caused me. I am still alive, but you don’t have to run anymore, I am not chasing you.
Hysterical. My fit of attention is over – the blood is dry. All I wanted was you. We were meant to be together, can’t you see? If I cannot have you, nobody shall. This is my ultimatum. I hope you are happy now. Is this what you wanted? You did this to me. You did this yourself. You did this.
Naked. I draw the knife from your throat and watch as you gasp for air. The river of blood flows again, this time with your blood. They won’t find your body for at least a week here. You’re cold now, and pale too. Perhaps in hell you will realize that we were meant to be together. I am sending this letter with love, and it will be my last on Earth. I love you, Sonja.