I’m writing suicide notes on the bodies of all the boys I fuck because it’s only when you’re empty that you’re free to love. When they find my body at the base of the closet or my head in the oven or my stone cold coat in the river they will point their fingers at each other and ask for ransom money. The new girl to take off your clothes will be the first one to read my love letter to hell because you are afraid of mirrors the way I am afraid of my father and I know you will not go looking for another reason to kill one. You have enough murders on your hands. You are scarring and the blood is crusted beneath my fingernails. When you bury me for the last time I hope it smells like rain. When you sleep alone for the first time I hope it smells like me.