I am constantly swallowing blood. I am always wringing my hands blue. I am full of fever. 

While you exist, the rain leaves bruises. The heat of summer lights my hair on fire. No one sits next to me on the bus ride home. I have chewed off all my fingernails. 

While you exist, my heart plays possum. My teeth fall out. The dishes sit in their own grease. The birds turn to humans. Singing in the mornings. Throwing themselves off tower blocks. My knuckles are skinned to the bone. 

While you exist, I crush berries in my palms. Smear the walls red. Name the stray cats. Leave all the lights on. Fall asleep to the television. Cut myself out of photographs. 

While you exist, the moon follows me home. Throws my shadow across the kitchen tile. Calls the tides to my feet. 

While you exist, blunt trauma. Loneliness. The same thing. Your voice fills my eardrums. Fills the bedroom. Fills me with grief. And I am practicing my nooses. And I am practicing my handwriting. I write you the letter. 

While you exist, while you exist, while you exist—