Hatesex Blood Tribute

$426 in drugs. 19 weeks since we talked. 34 days since I texted. 9 years since we met.

5,000 milliliters of red left in my body.

I really promise I love you Emily…

Somewhere in this diluted scum, dripping from my chopstick wrists like candy syrup, there is an adoration for you brushing monkish worship. You were my everything, and when I lost you, I lost myself. You gave me food, but never taught me to hunt. Because you knew I’d become stronger than you. That I’d become independent of your love. But you could have never foreseen this. Weakness is like darkness, Emily. The bottom of the ocean. The longer I stay here the better I can see. How much you wronged me. How much you used me. How much you piggybacked off my kindness while I fed your pitiful little addiction.

You always said you were the worst of the two of us. But now I’ve stooped to a new low. You found someone else to supply what you needed- while I’m still stuck craving my vice, all while forgetting what it even felt like for you to be here in the first place.

Is it serving you well there in your little summer camp? No time for old Hilda anymore. But plenty for the owners of the dozens of rods you have to shove in yourself just to forget your guilt. You do feel guilty, don’t you? You will soon if not. What will happen when you realize you never responded to my message? Those words I couldn’t ever say in person but penned so eloquently for you now? Perhaps you’ve seen it already, and it’s swallowed you up so deep you can’t even dream of a response. Can’t fathom being the one responsible for what’s happened to me. That’s okay. I’d like to send you an update now. A present, just like always. Actions speak louder than words. And even for a dried-up, skeleton-faced bitch like me, blood’s always thicker than water.

I urinate in the stew. Smells almost like the baggie you shoved up your ass once we finally got caught that one night on the road. Did you even hear what I was saying then? I always knew you were special, but I was so hurt that you couldn’t even pick up on a simple little confession. You fucked all those other shitheads, why not me? I would’ve been good to you. You could’ve gotten away with anything.

Now it would be a different case. If I lay with you, I want to make art out of it, less an activity and more something to convey the cries of this rancid-fucking-bastard wolf pup you left inside me. I want to impart on you what you couldn’t learn through words, what you might not even understand through the bottle I’ll soon mail to your cabin. I’d impress upon you the consequences of trying to domesticate a creature you can’t control, a meal from which you bit off far more than even your slutty little mouth could chew. I’d show you the real Hilda. The Hilda that whips herself to think of you. The Hilda that had so little going for her she just had to make her life about you.

It’s not lost on me. The irony. I always thought I would be the one leaving you. The one controlling you. You were never that good, sweetie. Never that smart. How did I get used by such a suck-up? Maybe we’re both playing this masquerade. Both hiding our hands, convincing each other we’re nothing more than passive sheep. I can’t be the only one. Right? I refuse to believe it. You are the villain. You are. You are. I want you to feel bad. That’s what I want. Until you feel bad my job’s not done. Do you remember the zoo? March 6th. I was telling you about a single, one I was secretly writing about you. And all you could talk about was your stupid breakup. I was right there, Emily. I was right. Fucking. There.

You know what I can’t believe? What I can’t accept, even now- why wouldn’t even listen to my music. You promised, Emily. You said you would, so many times in fact. Why would you do that? If you had just told me from the get go I meant nothing to you, I would’ve ended it by now and you wouldn’t have to be putting up with this. But no, now you’ll never hear the things I play now. I admit it’s not the best. All I can listen to anymore for inspiration is a single band. A soulless J-Rock cash-in known only for what was hidden behind the scenes. The roadie killed herself after a meeting where the lead announced his partnership with their drummer, just before a show. They still played that show. You know what happened next? After years of stagnation, they finally blew up overseas. It was only when the news came out that the perpetrator couldn’t take it. He joined her, after that. I wonder, would you ever feel bad enough to join me?

No matter. My last ingredient to my love letter is something only I can give you. Esssence created at your very thought, made pink from the blood of neighboring scratches each time my fingernails missed the mark. I can’t help but be this way about you. This mixture has all of me now. All that’s left. The only thing to add is the package. I’ll tuck it inside brown paper within cardboard walls, resting beside it this note and every single bottle and bag you left around when you thought I wasn’t looking. Even through the remnants of medicine I can recognize your infuriatingly nostalgic scent.

You don’t have to understand, but I’d appreciate it if you got angry or at least a little turned on.

Love, Hilda!