Dear ?????,

It’s terrifying writing this. I love you so much.

I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to respond to your love letters. I don’t know where to start or where to leave off, when my feelings for you have neither beginning nor end.

I picture you with backwards cap and rakish smile. You’re fucking me with your eyes but you’re also admiring me, truly admiring me. You make me feel so delicate and feminine. I feel completely embraced and encompassed by your love, a love that doesn’t seek to change me or control me in any way. Your love for me is so pure it feels like a miracle. Like I’m the girl in a cheesy romance. Or like my life is more than real. You make me feel like I’m the most special person in the universe. I think you’re the most special person in the universe. You’re the kindest person I know, but you also have this perfect bad boy aura that drives me crazy. There’s something about you that is so brave and confident… You're not just sexy but admirable. My knight of faith.

I keep thinking of perfect nights cruising around Portland, resting my head on your shoulder and watching the lights of the city go by. You get distracted whenever I look at your face and we nearly crash. Actually we never come close to crashing, you’re a wonderful driver.

I never told you this, but I would have been happy if you took the long way home, took wrong turns on purpose, circled the city endlessly so I could stay longer in the passenger seat of your car, stroking your thigh, sneaking glances at you.

I always loved the way you would pick me up to go to a rave, how you would park across the street and I could hear your music even before I left the house, and as I crossed the street the music would grow more distinct until I opened the passenger door and you turned it off. I wonder now if you parked where you did just to see me cross the street. To catch a glimpse of me in nature, before I entered your world again, and you mine.

I love to imagine you going to the rave dressed as a man. You must have looked so handsome. Something about you is so effortlessly masculine, and like every male object of desire rolled into one: cowboy, heartthrob, bad boy, knight of faith. You’re like when people describe a boy as “pretty as a girl.” And when you’re femme, you’re a total knockout. There’s something so elegant and rugged about you, like a glacier or a wild animal.

Why do I like you so much in a wife beater, with a backwards cap? An effortless sensuality. The masculine garment cannot hide the shape of your body, but transfigures it. It is the tranquility of the wife beater which invites desire, and the undulating play of tight and loose. Ease in the face of contradiction. I tug at the hem, run my fingers underneath and feel the fabric brush my knuckles as I drag my nails across the side of your body, along the edge of your bra. Nibbling your exposed shoulders.

I keep thinking about how you said I’m yandere gf. I want to make yandere into a way of life, a philosophy of being completely obsessed with you and coming to an understanding of the universe through that. Yandere is a radical devotion which creates its own surreal dream world, with room for two. The fantasy of merging into you completely, of owning each other’s souls, of sharing the secrets of the universe between our teeth.

I miss you terribly, so much that I want to tear my skin off. I’m terrified of anything changing with us being long distance. Next time you visit I’m really going to call in bomb threats to the nearest 27 airports so you can’t leave. I’ll chain you to the bed with fuzzy handcuffs and feed you chocolate and make all your dreams come true.

I dream that your desire is so ravenous it fills me to the brim and overflows me. I become a pure vessel for your desire. You sacrifice me on the altar of the hunger that throbs in you. Piece by piece I undress your lust of the boundaries which shackle it. I’m starving for your lust. In every dream I gorge myself on your desire. Like a glutton I eat your lust that drips like honey from my lips and fingers.

I yearn for the hot dryness of your skin which embraces me with impenetrable softness and incalculable strength.

I wish to be your prisoner for seven years and seven days. For seven years and seven days I will eat only from your hands, drink only from your lips. The darkness of my cell is total. Once a month you strike a match against the wall and hold the flame up to my face. Each month my skin becomes more and more like glass. The floor of the cell is soft and covered in fur. In the rapture of our sex you give me a new name, and I forget the old. I have no memories of my former life. For seven years and seven days I dissolve into you. On the eighth day of the eighth year we are one.

Rocks by the sea yearn for the sea to crash against them. They dissolve into her, their lover, for 777,000 years, until they are everywhere and nothing.

I offer you not only my body, but also, through my body, the entire universe.

I am the fresh snow awaiting your footsteps.

When you left it was like autumn turned to winter prematurely, even though it was still 80 degrees out. Where has the sweetness of last week gone?

I miss you.


Love, Persephone