A Mon Petit Chou, Salut. J’espère que tu es heureuse. Ii vous apportera du bonheur de savoir que je suis miserable ces années sans toi, honnêtement — il a été une existence miserable. Je vois tan visage partout. Je peux sentir tes mains sur mon corps comme un fantôme. Ton odeur, aussi, Je crie pendant des nuits parce que tu n’es pas a mon cote. C’est pathétique, non? Mais, je suis une creature pathétique. Alors, j’écris cette lettre dans un effort d’oublier. Autant que je te suis dévouée, je me rends compte que tu étais jamais mon prince charmant. Laissez-moi continuer dans ma langue mamelle… You used me. Simple as that. You needed someone to put you on a pedestal, to make you feel alive. I was willing to do anything for you. Had you asked, I would have thrown myself into a pyre. I would have left my friends and family. I would have stuck by you for however long — until our bodies could rot together and merge into one. And yet, I was always aware of how unhealthy this devotion was. Moreover, because I knew it was one-sided. I was a sex thing to you. A mere distraction you could use to lessen that inner turmoil of yours. I was a person you cold hate and beat on. But with every scar, with every broken limb, I would always find myself crawling back to you. It would probably be of no surprise that I slit my writs earlier this week because of this fucking feeling…I can’t handle it. I hate you but I love you. I hate myself. Mon dies! Pourquoi tu ne comprends pas mis emotions! Do you not care? Ma mere disait que des homes come toi set un poison. A poison that kills me from the inside out. I’m not sorry to have called the cops. I’m not sorry you got charged. I’m not sorry you’re in Bloomfield. You are a toxic creature who would’ve killed me had you been granted the chance. You are evil and I am twisted. An imperfect pair. C’est tout pour aujourd’hui. Love,