Letters from Two Unfortunate Lovers

To The One Who is Unfortunate Enough to Love Me,

I can sit here and think of a million ways to impress you but let me say this plainly: if you’re looking for the man of your dreams – a man who can make you feel like a goddess, a ruler of the seven seas, or an heiress to an unobtainable fortune, then I am of no service to you. I offer nothing but my time, my attention, and my conversation. If that for you is enough, then I am happy to oblige.

However, if you seek that I shall offer you the world, sacrifice my life, and put myself through unimagineable pain just to please you, then I cannot promise you these gifts. Sacrifice is for those prostrate themselves in service of their gods in hopes of a good fortune that is soon to come.

My love is selfish. How can I have you when I’m dead? How can I see you when I’m blind? How can I hear you when I’m deaf? How can I touch you when my limbs are frozen like stone? How can I tell you that I love you when my lips are permanently sealed?

There is very little that I can offer you. I am not a prince who has inherited the wealth of countless generations. I am not a warrior that can protect you from the ravages of death. I am not a wizard who cast spells and entrance you in my magic.

I am small, insignificant, and cowardly but nevertheless, I love you. At any moment, all this will be over, so please, let’s just have a drink and enjoy this moment together.


To The One For Whom My Love is Unfortunate,

If you think that it is gifts and sacrifices that I desire, then you know nothing about my love for you. My love is only unfortunate because I give it unconditionally to someone who is too afraid to take it. So self-absorbed in your inadequacy and so obsessed with the destruction of your own image that in the recesses of your mind, you painted a sordid painting of me: a chiaroscuro of a dark, demented witch who demands you to prostrate yourself before her, you self-defiling Carravagio.

I can see through the subtle manipulation that is your modesty. You insult me in your insinuation that I want you to become crippled and die in my name. And yes, your time, your attention, your conversation are not only enough, they are all I can ever want from you. Beneath the mask of your self-flaggelation, there is something sweet: a jar of honey whose contents last a thousand milleniums. I beg you to not sour that sweetness or break that jar simply because you convinced yourself that your gifts aren’t sufficient.

I cried when you said that you are not a prince, because you know not of the wealth that your love offers me. I cried when you said that you are not a warrior, because you know not of the monsters that you killed as you stood by my side. I cried when you said you are not a wizard, because how else could you put this spell on me?

You are not small, insignificant, or cowardly. And even if all this would be over in a moment, my memory of you will last forever. So, let’s just drink to that.


Photo by Caleb Ekeroth

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