Dear.

There's a letter to you in my drafts folder. It rambles endlessly about my relationship problems. About desperation. The seething angles sound like I would have been screaming into the walls of my lonely apartment if I hadn't turned myself into text. Raging like a mad woman. It oozes bottles of red wine. And insecurity. In it, I ask you whether you think that being with someone should be this hard. And admit that I feel completely unlovable. You would have known what to say. I can't recognize myself in the words. Now. Can't imagine how that life sustained itself. For so long. How I became in those sick days so much less than human. I leave it there. Unfinished and never reaching you. I don't want to go back. In a time when I didn't have a name. In a world where you still had two feet.

Your

Imogen.