Dear R.P.H. (Letter #9)

I’m transcribing a series of handwritten letters I wrote, but never sent. Read the previous letters here.

Dear R –

I need to, I have to turn off my input sensors every once in a while. Does that make sense? I can’t take anymore. One day you’ll be interested in what makes me tick. But I just need to curl up in a ball, hold my knees and say, “don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me.” I need to know you’ve got me. Like the ice skater who once came up behind me quickly to grab my waist and pull me along so we didn’t crash. “I have you.”

God I’m such a fool. What’s true about this? The person who lowers their barriers with reluctance, one more time, always regrets it. I should’ve never let you in.

I’ll do what I tell myself to do, one of these days. I’ll be all the things I think I should be. I’ll be lovely and perfect and I’ll stop relating to Dorothea.

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