Love Letters to an Unfeeling Swine

2nd January, 2003

Toady you are clear, pure and transparent. Refracting light in a kaleidoscope of colours that appear just because they are passing through you.

Today you are poison. Lethal in small doses because that’s all you allow me to have. Little sips of something deadly – because you claim, you love me too much to kill me right away. I wish that I could love like you. Kill you and rejoice. Kill you and watch you rejoice because there is no greater way of dying then dying at my feet.

You swish around in your little glass bottle. Soaking slowly through the shapely brown cork that keeps you entangled inside it. You work that cork well. Never has a small piece of wood been so acutely aware that it may be too shapely. Whoever heard of a fat cork?

Stranger things happen everyday.

Like today, I let a fleeting desire to stick my face in a pile of mirror shards beat the shit out of me. It’s strange because I never felt that kind of hate for a few random features that innocently fell onto the same face. They were not right because they weren’t the ones that you would have picked, had you been given a catalogue of body parts and facial topography. You’ve more or less burned your way through the centre of that bloated piece of wood, and exposed to the sky you evaporate blithely towards everything. I’m twisted pieces of charred cork on a forest floor and love you even though you’ve left me again.

6th January, 2003

You visited me in hospital today. Stood over my bed, and gently ran your fingers over the leather straps that cut deep gauges in my wrists. I was alone with you for only a moment, but then you had managed to chip a hole the size of your fist into my skull in a few seconds less. Right now, you smiled; and carefully pulled of that cashmere coat I had woven for out of random strands of thoughts we had had together. Man had you grown. Your body seemed to have morphed out of the midgetness it had been trapped in. You were smooth and coppery and looked suspiciously like that perfect man I had pasted together last summer. The gag in my mouth was made of cotton. A relatively loose weave, hundred percent pure, undoubtedly made from the labour of some poor peasant who could not have known what it would be used for. It always tasted of nothing, except for the odd day when it would seep with old spit. You never touched me. You moved with this new found grace that I had never seen before; I didn’t want to know where you’d learned it. You decided slowly, enjoying the vain attempt of every inch of my skin and drop of my blood to leave this body that had driven you away and just touch you. You left softly… everything they put in my mouth now tastes of your tongue.