There used to be a time where everything was okay with me. Before I was obsessed with fire, before nothing felt fun anymore, before I started hitting my girlfriend.
Don’t try and chastise me for it, I know it’s wrong. But it’s not one of the worst things I’ve done today.
I’m not just tired of her, I’m not just bored of her, I’m bored and tired of everything.
In fact, I think I’m falling apart.
I’ve started writing letters, big long letters on scrolls of scrap paper. I don’t send them. I don’t even buy stamps. I just take my lighter to them; I like to watch the words as they’re eaten by the flames.
I like to watch them burn.
She won’t stop crying and it’s driving me insane.
There’s a lock on my study door and she keeps asking me why and then crying when I won’t tell her. Really, I’d like to let her see. To let her see me and my filthy hands. I could let her inside.
There’s no light in that room but there doesn’t need to be. I don’t want any windows; I don’t want to be able to see my demons walking the streets outside.
I’m bored of that.
Bills, receipts, cardboard boxes, all of my things are covered with letters. And all my dreams are filled with ghosts.
And in my dreams, I hunt.
I know I’m selfish, I know I’m unkind but God have mercy because it’s just not enough to hate everything she does. I’m in her head when she dreams at night because she says my name and she cries and I get so tired but I can’t rest, I can’t sleep.
 I’m sick of her, I’m sick of loving and I wish she was sick of me.
I hold the pillow above her for a while then I sit back and dream.
In my study, I read books; I read recounts, I do research. Only in there do I feel awake again. I experiment with various things, and sometimes I turn these things into letters.
Everything is a letter now, my walls, ceilings, doors, floor, windows, I run out of ink and paint so I gouge into carpets and tear the wallpaper. I write letters in my skin.
I kind of like the way I feel when I’m hurt.
She keeps asking for me to leave the room, or at least let her in. I don’t how I’ll react when we’re in that room together.
But I know I’m not a decent man when we’re all alone.
These books I’ve read. Documents I’ve found. Tools, weapons, motifs, equipment I’ve stolen from crime scenes
I think I’m falling apart.
But I’m piecing myself back together with the essence of things my friends have left behind for me.
I start writing addresses on my letters.
Manson, Dahmer, Gacy, Gein.
Lover, won’t you stay still for me?
I’ve run out of space, I’ve run out of time, so I start writing letters on her and all my wars become insignificant under the feel of her skin.
Our love was always dangerous.
I never drew a line.
I’m a letter, she’s a letter, and our whole home is one big letter. It’s a cry for something bigger, a scream of wanting something better than this life, a prayer for God or the devil or whoever hears first.
I’m obsessed with fire, the way it consumes.
I burn every letter except two.
I’ve fallen apart, I’m obsessed with fire.
And it is everywhere.
But I’m not sorry for half my crimes; they’re not the worst thing I’ve done today.
All my letters, all my words won’t stop screaming at me so I leave that burning house. I’m not burning and neither is the letter in my hand. Licked, stamped and stuffed into an envelope.
Me and my letter find a home.
Me and my letter, we find people like us.
They know I get tired and I get bored but they’re just as sick of love as I am, and they all pretend not to be hunters too.
One day, I buy a stamp, I post my letter.
I never get a reply.

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