Dear [blank],

We don’t have to melt into each other. We don’t even have to set each other’s hearts aflutter. It worries me to think that each time you pucker up; you expect my lips to take you deep into the seas of love. They won’t. I don’t want to make love to you, I just want to fuck and be fucked. Can we please just do that? We don’t need to sigh and talk afterwards, like lovers caught in a passionate haze. We don’t need to share a cigarette, hold hands or spoon each other and lull one another into a sweet slumber. You don’t have to tell me made up stories about your childhood or funny stories about your friends. Don’t ask me about my grandmother’s quirks or enquire about my mother’s health. She is doing fine, thank you very much. Why do you have this need, to make everything feel like something it definitely isn’t? Why must we indulge in these silly games, where you pretend to be the lover that you are not? We are the faithful unfaithful claiming our love to be falsely true. I am projecting a detachment that I’ve appropriated from heroines of the written word; I am living a morality that is only mine to keep and yours to judge. This is my utopia. Release your mind of these crystallised cogs: flimsy ideas of togetherness. I am no sweetheart and I am certainly not your darling. I am just I and well you are…just you. Don’t sugar coat it, for your own sake and for fuck’s sake. I know you want to believe that this is more, I am afraid that it is not. You are just a passer-by, a thing of play, a distraction for the now, and you have no place in my cocoon.

We are the faithful unfaithful claiming our love to be falsely true.

I repeat I don’t want to make love to you. Just fuck me, please? This is the beginning and the end to our story.

Yours,

[blank]