Dear Imogen Cortis-Jones

I've aged. It's been 3 years now since I last saw you in person. I'm an idiot you know. I cried myself to sleep last night and woke up crying as well. I was nearly there. Close. Your one message threw me out of whack. I don't know. I dream of being in contact with you again. But every time we do it results in more pain because the contact is for you to hurt me. You seek admissions, protection from me. I know it's not fair on you either. But why why did you do it?

Back then why would you even use my body when clearly for you it was not out of love. All the actions, inactions and words you've said after the fact were around how it was meaningless. Why did you go down there with your finger without my consent? I remember justifying your actions thinking that it's because you were so in love and lacked the control to stop and just kept trying to find reasons to forgive you. I never said No but I never said Yes either. Knowing that you were on absolute control, that you were clear in your faculties it hurts. It will always hurt.

I was so much lounger than you. A 17 year gap. I didn't care. I should have. That played into how much power you had over me.

I remember you telling my parents over a whatsapp voice message that you would protect me when we were travelling in Malaysia. You did this to me instead.

You will always rebut. If you don't it's just a ploy. I remember when I came to your apartment the last time. That dingy little studio. You yelled at me. For trying to contact you. Over March up till my birthday I just wanted to see you. When we finally saw eachother you yelled and hurt me, then claimed to love me. I'll forever remember that. You kissed me and said that it was up to me, no more games. You needed sex. I believed that you loved me, that we loved eachother. But you weren't.

Contact. A while ago I had a dream. I was walking to the train station and you were at the local car park. I remember being scared of you not wanting to confront you. But you came towards me held me tightly and said everything is alright now. I know that is just a dream. But then in May you tell me we need to talk. I know it's not because you wish to help me. I know it's not because you genuinely care about me. I realise none of those words are true, any response is tailored so if anything happens you would absolve any responsibility when people read all of our correspondence.

I treated you like my diary. I would text your old number with daily musings. Write to you and think somehow you cared.

I am a pathetic creature as you've said. I'm a peasant as you've said. I'm full of shit as you've said. A crazy bitch as you've said. Don't ever contact me again is what you said. Not interconnected in anyway.

Why won't I stop thinking and crying.