Letter

I would say to her, "I tried to write you a letter once about how much I love you. But I was on aderrall, and the words vibrated right off the page." I tried, though, I tried.


I would say, "You think that I don't want your affection, that I am disgusted by human emotion, sadness, 'the funk of life.' That was true. But only of my own funk. If funk comes oozing out of us like molten lava from cracks in the crust, I thought that my flow was toxic, virulent, shameful. Like a veneral disease. I didn't know that it was burned clean and utterly desirable, just like yours. I really didn't know that. So while I was embracing your funk, bathing in it, wallowing in it to show you just how much I loved you, I didn't see the insult implicit in refusing to share. Share my funky disease? My cluster of erupting blisters, oozing putrid puss?"