I watched me and you die. Only to meet you again and wonder why I didn’t mourn more. I wish you would mourn me. Maybe I don’t deserve that: your mourning, that is. I killed you, and then me, under the pretense that it was morally sound. It took me too long to realize. You are alive again and I asked to have the opportunity to kill you again. I don’t think you would let me this time. You’re better than me in that way, it seems. I love you. I never loved you I love you. I can’t think of a time I ever stopped. Could this be me saying what I wanted to back then? Did I really die? I feel so small. I feel the same as those days I thought were so far removed from me—the days I cried at the thought of waking up the next morning. You managed that all on your own, and I see you resent me. I resent that resentment. I want you to say you forgive me and mean it. I want to return to what we had so badly. I want it back. I carry its dead weight forward. I cannot stand it. I cannot bear it. Once more to see you. I wanted to kiss you so badly. I want to. I’m just a girl. I want to be loved by one. You are awfully convenient and not at the same time. I don’t think I loved so intensely, and still I cannot forget you. Mourn me. I remember you said you couldn’t hate me. You could never blame me. And yet you resent me, still. It makes me sick to my stomach. So sick I think I ought to kill me and you forever. This letter is my weapon and I write in blood. Our blood. I kill you and you kill me just the same. Our love would not live any other way than six feet under. One day I hope I can grab a coffee or tea with you and speak of murder. I hope one day we can laugh about it with no blood on our hands. I’ll be waiting for you. Even if we must meet in Hell just know that when I say I love you I would mean it just as much as if I said it on Earth. I could go on but I have a corpse to attend to. I stare at her in the mirror and love her all the same. If you ever come to mourn me in this lifetime just know you are not alone. Our bodies will decompose but I hope my future children have your laugh. Or your hands. Or your eyes. Or your heart. Even if we are forgotten the reasons I love you will remain on Earth until Heaven and Hell merge and no one else on either plane has the energy to admire all things beautiful that you invented. I’m sorry I couldn’t invent a love where we worked out. I’d make a terrible God.

Take care,
Andre Kim Kessel