At last, I’m alive, and my old bones are brand new. Each breath is so sweet.

You told me that you would happily die in my warm embrace, and suddenly, my arms were ice. It isn’t nice, but that’s just life, sweet darling, and I’ve been hardened, like honey at the back of the cupboard, unsure if I will ever flow freely again.

I became besotted with my suffering at an early age, bewitched, and addicted, endlessly longing for pain, because it numbed the aching want that wounded my soul, spreading through each of my bones until I was dripping with poison. I am so cruel, because I have been kept captive by the idea that at any…