10/23/2025.
I'm FUCKED "[bold, italic and all-caps in original]" - as a mod wrote to me, at work. Politics.

It's now been two years. I guess I would have cheated on you twice by now, according to your husband. Such fucking bullshit.

I'm so unhealthy - mentally, emotionaly, physically, financially. If you ever did reach out, even before my deathbed, you may put me there anyway with a fucking heart attack.

But I know you won't. I've know for years now. 2.5, since we saw each other.

There is a lightness to withering, akin to death. A cat in the yard, fat and fighting for family; skin torn, dangerously unhealthy; chill, because he was on the verge of a heart attack, according to a vet. I can't tell stories.

I can't tell you any more stories, especially. Even here, in your last hideout, what you told me to take down at at the start of the year. I think that will be the last time we ever talk. It breaks me, even now. Whatever the fuck is left of me.

I lasted most of the year. After the last year. After the years before. You took my 30s, as surely as you took my 20s. I can't face my 40s, let alone the decades after. I won't. That's a fucking promise. To myself, all I have.

I fucking tried, with all I had. I hated you.

But that was always going to burn out. You even told me to hate you, to delay this inevitability.

The roof, to the porch, by the neck. That was it, back then, when you really say I lost you. Because of one fucking night of a goddamn warning, to make sure we did this right, to set up the rest of our lives. I still want to fly out there and ruin your fucking life because of your goddamn lessons about my ruinous chivarly.

There's a stupid tiny part of me that thinks it might work. And then we could be happy. And a bigger part that just says to fucking end it all. You don't care.

Fuck everything. Life is fucking pointless.

Choke on some last goddamn letters. From me, to your void, over these horrible years. You ruined my life. I just hope it's almost over.

But if you somehow manage to see this, and read through my devastated self-defense... please x, fucking please! For all that is goddamn worthy in this hellhole of existence, you have to talk to me.

be with me.

Because I still can't fucking make sense of your goddamn words. I don't know what you were, or how you treated me. Cheat test buddy, fling, soulmate. Saving face, lost to circumstance, buried in confusion.

The most evil fucking bitch I couldn't ever imagine.

I can't live like this.

I know your horrible solution: delete it all. Because we are different, and always were. Truth, x. I can't escape it. No matter the angle; one undeniable, devastating truth: you didn't listen to me. My perspective. Or believe it.

I'm not rereading your words, not that much. They're fucking seared into my goddamn heart. I can't breathe without you. More than five fucking seconds on my own, thinking of you, and I'm slamming my fists into whatever the fuck is in front of me.

No telegram was for your benefit.
Aug 31, 2025
unsent

horrible dream for 4

I had a horrible dream about you. Or our situation - all four of us, apparently, according to my subconscious. Her and I in a hotel (not that we've traveled in years), somehow bump into him and you. I slowly figure out it may have been staged by all of you, I'm the only one in the dark. A lot of his friends are there to watch my reactions, maybe one for you - supposedly your sister, but I still remember a little and she was not your sister. Brunette, short, round face.

You acted drunk all night, which he would probably have liked, and cause me jealousy, except he was so focused on me. At one point I was between you and him. His friends were on the other side of the table, watching, commenting, something bad about me. Then your sister said something quietly, so I leaned over to listen, as did you. She repeated: some people are (something bad, I think about you). I fumbled out a response, "one person's (malady? Is that what she said?) is another's..." I paused, thinking about a positive spin. "Cure?" You seemed pleased. (Because of course, I will die both hating and wanting you. You were my soulmate. I will not get another.) Was this some dating reality show meet the friends dark dream rip-off?

That was the highlight. He had invited us over, our hotel rooms were close. I kept asking what he wanted, in response to his unclear demands on me. He mentioned a word, not quite closure. Clarity? Of course you never gave it to him. You sold me as the "scallywag" to save your skin. You did so much. This wasn't even about my hatred for you, not really. I could barely glance at you, getting just fleeting glimpses of your intoxication. Oblivious, at least you were acting that way.

There was an apocalypse too; storms, scarcity of people. A stranger busted into our living room from some shared patio, after you, after she was gone or something too. He wanted a flower or something, then popped out to serenade someone a floor up. I guess it worked. He said how easy it was.

Nothing is easy for me. Everything is horrible. Maybe this was just a reminder that at least you tricked him too. It took my mind's worst trick to face this, years later, with hungover fuel - almost lucid, yet totally enmeshed. Never a thought for it being a dream.

Maybe the lesson is that even if we saw each other again, you wouldn't have anything to say to me (you basically already said that, it's why you cut me off); and I couldn't say anything to you. Some Twilight version of my feared and likely untold (except maybe in the last couple years after you - so much you refused) ending: 1984. Perhaps the most dystopian, and final.

I will always be haunted, from the depths of my soul, with no hope for mitigation, let alone cure. My entire existence is a painful, chronic waste. I hadn't even been rereading your refused (active and passive), not really (just carrying them everyday). Though there is one, an unsent: "bye"; more representative, or at least lasting.

I'm so lost.

May 16, 2025.

I imagined I went too far. Not the act itself - no acts matter, anymore. The breakthrough, the words, the thoughts.

I went too far.

That's how my daydream started. My letter.

In some physical sense; irrevocable, irreparable. Like Conan, but without truly weighing things.

As I have known since at least my text last summer, my two week family visit, alone: nothing has any weight, comparatively. Then, too, I imagined - as many do - the worst: the plane split in half, I get sucked out, or a crash landing - surely no survival; just a rushing, painful end.

It almost seemed nice. Finally, my end. No more you, and what you did, which will always make everything else so numb, even dying itself.

I can feel my heart give way. I try to keep it beating, with what little survival instinct - or at least pain avoidance - I have left. I am, after all, quite unhealthy by this point. A heart attack is the likeliest end. It's why I had to tiptoe in our final conversations. You could never really see me.

You never really wanted to, anyway.

And when I do think about you, for more than a few seconds, it's not about giving way - but bursting. I feel the rage shoot down my arms and slam into whatever is available. Usually my legs. Like my dad's shake, which he politely channels between his clasped hands. But much worse.

I hate you, x. You don't care. You never believed. You won't see.

You cost me my twenties, lost with your final gift, trying hopelessly to fill your void. I was so naive. But I found a numbness in settling into despair.

Then you slipped me a sip of salvation in my thirties. I came roaring back - with the wisdom and desperation of age, truly trying for the first time in my life. All that stood in the way of my happiness was your disbelief that I truly wanted you.

It was a poison.

You didn't mean a word, not truly. You always knew our time was short, because you didn't even have a choice to make. You made it when you reached back out to me after our decade of silence. You knew when you would cut me off.

Your only surprise was how I fought. Maybe at the end I will believe you didn't truly mean me harm. It was just a game, a cheat test gone too far. And how could your stubborn need to save face possibly be matched by some death wish of mine?

I finally told my parents. I feel like they already knew. You knew they knew. The whole household supposedly loved me - so my mom says. Yet they never invited me back. A full year later, and my parents are still playing pretend.

They did not seem surprised that I wanted to leave her. They said the lines. "We support you, whatever your decision". Mom even called it abusive, I think (not that they really thought I could do better - if only you had met them that night). But mostly just that I need someone to talk to. A therapist.

I've been hopeless for so long, it really doesn't matter. Just one more weight to drop, pretending with family.

Maybe this Sunday I will drop another.

bye

unsent

You love bombed me. Every doubt you had about me - how anyone could feel how I felt with so little time - is proof. You didn't believe what I was saying to you, because you didn't believe what you were saying to me.

You gaslit me. Lying about what happened, denying my experience, my base needs. This is why you burned everything - all the evidence. You can lie to yourself the rest of your life.

You manipulated me. The setups and cutoffs, always trying to shift blame and save face. Always a new last minute excuse - our last talk, finally about October 2023, but without any time to talk about it. Just your quick lies about moving out and divorce lawyers. You broke up with me, and I broke up with her - without your permission, all in the days before my trip. Without a phone - you could text, or presumably call, but I couldn't, still because of him. I have no sympathy for him anymore.

I could forgive you, even move on, and be happy with you, if you let me. But you don't care to acknowledge anything. You won't admit what you did, how it hurt me, how it was wrong, how you won't do it again - let alone ask for my forgiveness.

It's why Mark fought you about my "offer" (which was always a plea). Like a fundamentalist arguing against evolution, because either it is all true, or none of it is.

Either I am a scallywag, and everything I've said has been just to manipulate you. Say what you want to hear, so I could fuck you.

Or I am your soulmate, and you fucked me. And he fucked us both.

You can't believe my "offer" and reject me, without being evil.

Did you know that Oryx and Crake was banned from all public schools in Utah? An August 3rd, 2024 text from me to your blockade reminded me.

I had to scroll a ways past my pathetic pretending. One of our differences. A terrible idea, for me. Just drove me crazy.

But when I get back to you... your final "play"...

I know you want a good bye, but, at a minimum, you need a bye. Good, or terrible - as in some of my unwritten, but frequently thought... you just need me gone.

It might even do me some good, at least for now. I have no hope for my long term, of course. I threw all of myself into you, knowing you were my one chance at happiness, and maybe even thinking you would choose me. Daring to hope, at least - on your words.

It's been well over a year and a half since you nuked us. Communication is everything, and you ended it. You haven't wanted to talk about that, except maybe the simplest of apologies - our talks are so strange, feelings out of sync. Muffled, echoing, in the cold. I'm slow, maybe defensively. But I do eventually get there.

Or I never do. I had never fallen in love with anyone until you. I never will again. Sexuality, companionship - and even, yes, caring - don't hold a candle to the volcano I felt for you. My entire being erupted, for the first and last time.

There is nothing left. I told you I couldn't make it. Because you never believe me.

I will never get over you.

I don't have your idle curiosity about our possibility. I desperately wish I could replace every moment without you. Even the most idle - an image from Seattle popped to mind, just walking in a park, some reservoirs.



I told a new coworker recently about your devastatingly poignant short story about the end of the universe. Hundreds of first contacts, no time to decipher - and no need... they were only saying goodbye. Down to the last planet, space station, and ultimately tiny device, until its atoms too split apart in the great rip of space.

You are my cold, distant, tragic North Star.

I opened you again. Looked at some pictures, reread your words -- the very last ones, in those last days. "Reality", October 22-23, 2023. Our cycle, tight and painful and beautiful: your fears about me, my desperate -- "sick" even -- denials (it was always the exact opposite; not an offer, Cyn, but a plea). Your "perfect" praise, winning "love" again. "Glasses", your parents house, his surgery.

Your doubt, the hardest I ever heard -- when you finally looked around and realized he was everywhere.

"Every memory I have is connected to him"

That's when I gave up. This was all just one day later, Cyn: October 24.

Your texts around then were terrible. And I couldn't text back, it was just emails. Terrible communication. And you didn't look at divorce lawyers.

"Please don't tell her tonight" - by the end of that day, October 24th, 2023. "I don't think I can do this. [...] I can't cause him pain anymore. [...] we had such a short-lived relationship. It's less than what I'm causing him. he thinks I'm his soulmate, too."

You never got to see my texts. Just how many exclamation marks, after the all-caps three letters of all time: CYN. But my emails sort of worked.

"You aren't his soulmate. He can be with anyone. You're the only one for me."

October 24th, 2023, 5:12 PM, that was it. I broke up with her, again, that night. I was learning to do the opposite of what you said. "helpless", 3:22 AM the next day, October 25th.

"That's the word I've been using with the therapist. I don't have autonomy, even when I try.

I talked to her, again. Broke up, again. It's easy, unlike with you. While still obeying your instructions - she still doesn't know the truth (though she did equate emotions and finances - your calls had a toll). But also not as bad as with him. Nothing too horrible. This has been coming for years, and keeps coming. And I guess no betrayal, as far as she knows.

She complained I wasn't fighting for us - because of course I'm not. She demanded a marriage plan - like she gets a job, then we get married. Of course I refused. She told me to go to NOLA on my own, because of course I can't get refunds.

Would you go with me instead? Of course not.

Because none of that really matters. Because you chose him, as always, mere hours after my confusion about your lack of a clear update about supposedly choosing me.."

Etc.

Your response, text again, 10:42 am: "[...] of course go to NOLA with Gema this weekend [...] Don't fret [...] Have fun [...] We can regroup after"

Then you re-engaging in that realm, "riled up", "pictures". October 26th. "Confused, but Grateful."

Nothing else, from you, until your betrayal days later. A couple more, from me -- in your "timezone", Friday, October 27th. Mention of a dream of you, but not detailed.

"Tell me anything you want. I just want to connect. I miss you."



But you didn't send a word. A draft from me, still unsent - likely October 28th: "I think maybe your silence is generosity, and we need it, desperately. These mountains are pits, disastrous traps, and if you fall into one of mine I swear to Time I will never recover. I really love you, Cyn. Talk to me, whenever you want.

But I think you don't, right now. Maybe it's best, you went silent in Hawaii, after I warned you about your dangers, and I feel like you have a safer, broader view. You have completely demolished my altruistic view of society. I don't think I can ever say anything particularly coherent. I just miss you, desperately, and I'm deathly afraid of your interpretation."

I think I sent a simpler version, October 28th, 9:52 am: "I know you're being generous, and maybe your silence is more generosity. So I'll keep this simple and hush. We can talk about everything when you want. Just know I miss you."

Then of course October 31st, "Another strange dream about you. you were an actual elf - you eventually transformed in Galadriel (Arwen wasn't royal enough I guess). But there were endless absurd rules I was trying to work through to be with you."

....

"And then of course I see an email from you. I won't read it yet, just hit send. I'm scared."

And you ended it, no conversation. All your fears about me, fed by my actual arch enemy - your husband, whom you let shit all over us. Without letting me respond - breaking your promise, again. And this time holding to it all year, and counting.

You chose based on circumstance, as you warned. But circumstances never changed, the mountains were always there - he was always waiting with a hug.

It always should have been me. I begged for you to let it be me. You pretended to want that. But then kept blaming me for not already being there. While stopping me from going.

LOVE BOMBER, GASLIGHTER and MACHIAVELLIAN

FOREVER






















































till i die

you won't get a telegram