Paris Nicck

Dear, stranger Tonight I want to ask you something, please answer me — answer me honestly.

Why do you always come back when I need you least?

Why are you never there in my darkest moments?

Why do you insist on reappearing just to pretend you want to stay, but then abandon me as if I were worthless?

As if I were those little coins forgotten at the bottom of your pocket — Disposable. Insignificant.

Darling, what are your reasons? Tell me, but tell me honestly, like you never had when we were still together.

Tell me, what exactly do you want from me now?

Is it my presence? Validation? Affection?

Come on, tell me, but without your lies, without your boring games, without your theater of good intentions — we both know it was never real.

This time, I want the truth, only the truth — Naked, raw and without its embellishments.

I want to see your most honest side… well, if there is any left there.

Love, I don't want to repeat this cycle.

Not anymore. My stranger, I also want you to know something: In this letter, I also wish to free myself.

I don't want to continue being a slave to an empty love — I believed it filled me.

I believed you were the flowers that calmed me, but you were the stones that hurt me.

To know… I think that in any case I will never get over you, because you marked me, in every way, in every form and in every feeling.

From love and passion to madness and fury.

From my letters of affection and care to those of melancholy and sadness — of course, my letters of overcoming are also one of them.

I only write them, to make myself believe, that one day I will be free without you.

Somewhere between my perdition and your name.

My dear favorite poison,

I believe I should have stopped.

Stopped writing. Stopped feeling. Stopped loving. And mainly stopped bleeding inside with beautiful words for people who only learn to be ugly inside.

But there is something rotten inside me that insists on wanting to set fire to all the letters I have ever written and, even so, keep them inside my chest.

As incredible as it may seem – or maybe not – You were just another one.

Another name that I screamed without sound, another face that I tried to erase with cigarette packs and the marks of my lipstick, another memory that I transformed into a little verse just to seem less sad than I am.

You know that I have the habit of writing like someone who is dragging themselves along.

The habit of someone who still waits for you at midnight, dressed in pride, but with legs trembling with longing and lust.

And no matter how much I lie and pretend not to feel — every letter and every word that comes out of me still tastes like your damn kiss.

I know I swore to you to stop.

I promised not to give my ocean to those who only know how to burn me.

But here I am… again.

Betraying myself once again.

Writing to you.

And my dear, know that if you ever found your name in some of my texts, poems, poetry, or even my curses, please feel privileged.

That means that, for a second, you were mine.

Even if only in pain and melancholy.

Even if only on paper and ink.

Even if only in my sick and crazy imagination.

Now you go.

Or stay.

I don't know. It doesn't matter.

In the end, I always write.

And you always become poetry. My poetry.

The kind that cuts and cuts when read aloud.

With desire and disdain,

— Scarlet.

Letter to those who left — but never left me for those who still feel, even after the end

I don't know where to start, but I want to say something.

I've tried to bury this story so many times, and still, it lives on in my memories.

We never really saw each other, never touched each other, but you reached me in a way that few have managed to do, and believe me, there were few.

There was something special about you — in your constancy, in your sweet and insistent way — that made room inside me, right when I thought I didn't want anyone else.

At first, I responded out of politeness.

But, little by little, your presence stayed.

And when I realized, it was already a feeling.

Not one of those easy to explain, but one of those that grows even when we try to prune it.

You went and came back.

And every time you came back, it seemed more intense.

More right.

More… ours.

And even with all my difficulties, with the blocks and fears that life taught me to carry, I tried. I tried in my own way.

Maybe it wasn't perfect, but I'm sure it was true.

I wrote letters, revealed thoughts that I never said out loud, moved what I could for us.

You didn't even read half of it — but I wrote it anyway. Because I felt you here, even from a distance.

When you started to change, I pretended not to notice.

You said it was all in my head.

And I… believed it.

Because, deep down, I really wanted it to be.

I did what was difficult for me.

I talked to people I never imagined, I made space for you to exist closer.

And, in the end, I was accused of never having tried anything.

I won't lie, that hurt.

It hurt before it was even over.

But still, I apologized for things that weren't mine.

And after that, the silence.

I still think. I still feel it.

I still have days when my heart aches and all I want to do is send another letter.

But this time, not to you.

To me. Because even though you've gone, I'm the one who's left.

I'm left with the remains of what we lived, with the echoes of everything that wasn't said,

with the pain of having loved someone who didn't love me right — but left a mark on me forever.

If you ever remember me, I hope you think about the words you didn't want to read,

the messages I wrote with my heart in my hand,

the times I kept quiet just so as not to lose you.

My dear, for the first time, I force myself to believe that I will be able to sleep without being by your side, without feeling your body taking up a good part of the bed, my head resting on your chest and feeling that even if the world were ending and all living beings on earth were in trouble, I would still be safe and welcomed.

My dear, a few years ago I became just skin and bones. My soul is missing. Some people have told me that they found it wandering around.