Every start of this letter eviscerates your image. It is the death you've been looking for. I once whispered, while kissing your neck, that I would use my art to show you how I feel. It made me sick to know that this would be the piece. I had fantasies of lighthearted companionship, of a soft breeze through your hair, yet in my dreams, a machiavellian, dystopic, murderous nature ruled supreme. My desire was to hurt you. There has been an unprecedented fury in me this last year. My patience has run thin. When I awoke to the bloody sheets, our skin torn open, burned, bruised, I wanted to hit you harder. When you would cry into the pillow from the thrashes, I would look on pitiless, and it would turn you on more than ever. You would have let me kill you that night, as long as you felt something.
