Letters from the Edge #2

Do you wear a tie? At least in my head, you do. I don't know why I haven't noticed. I will have to check your drawer. I want to be the tie wrapped around your neck. I want to be the belt tied to your waist. These letters to you are getting old. Perhaps I ought to start writing them on your walls with a goat's blood I sacrificed for the dark lords in your honor (I am saving the menstrual one for your birthday).

I ought to make you a shrine from the bones of your exes and a voodoo doll from all the hair you shave off your face every morning. I, too, keep myself soft and hairless for you—just how a female ought to be. We are soul mates. You just don't know it yet.

I find obsession and female rage quite cinematic. Aside from you, my sexuality is the French cinema: too graphic, explicit, and honest. I am your devotee with the fascination of a cult fanatic. The writer in me won't allow me to simply say, “I only have eyes for you.”

“Hail Satan” is my reply to anyone who is not you. I dance in your kitchen—my rightful place—when you are gone. Once I move in, your plate will never be empty, and your bed will never be cold. I am the epitome of gender expectation.

The hem of my dress will be your napkin. I will bear your children and have no say in how you choose to raise them. I will not acknowledge “the absurdity of unshackled femininity.”

Thou shalt embrace delusion as the good Lord intended. Who says obsession is not power? Anyways, I will keep writing to you with my sweet words, my smooth legs, and the unapologetic madness reserved just for you.

P.S. I know you hate surprises, but seeing the lack of ties, I took the liberty of purchasing them.

With all my love,

From the girl under your bed