{date unknown}
dear james,
last i heard, you were dead. and as far as i know, dead people cannot respond; but you never wrote expecting me to reply either, i suppose. so here it is, james. i've filed these letters into the order i like them most. because i'm just so selfish, you know? day forty-two went first because that's when you said it was the last letter, and you'd be a liar if you wrote ever again, so i made you a liar and put the rest afterwards. it made it seem like you were still here for a while longer, in my sick, damaged mind. reading your letters over and over is like reading a tragic love story to someone named daisy. i just wished you hadn't named me that. my mind always laughs and says 'these aren't for you.' but my heart screams 'you stupid bitch, what have you done?' i find myself constantly pinning this on you, james; i always will. i can't bare this load. you're so stupid james. i wish i would have came back, just one more time to tell you not to do it. and to tell you i wanted to jump off the rope swing that day, james; to tell you i'll wear my shoes in the house. i want to eat pizza with olives on it, i wouldn't pick off a single olive ever again, if it meant i could have you back, james. i want to fix the sun. i want to fix the moon and the way food tastes and your ability to feel it all. i'll tell you why i was crying the night before i left you, james. because now who's going to reach things from the top shelves for me, who's going to smell my coffee, but never drink it? who will i leave notes for? who will i make memories with? you're gone. gone. gone. gone. james. gone.
you were never broken james. i just wanted to fix myself. i just wish i could have saved you and loved you the way you deserved to be loved.
it was always you james.
love,
'daisy'
p.s. i cried anyway,
