These are the letters I’ll never mail to you in prison. The feelings I know I would get you in trouble if they found out what you are and what you mean to me. I’m writing in this book everything I would’ve sent to you if I were free and not frightened, everything you saw on my eyes when I visited you and then had to hold back so no one could tell that we’re lovers. Some friends told me to type these letters and sign a woman’s name, they meant well but they don’t understand how it’s been between us. I don’t know whether you’ll ever read these words… when you get out they won’t fit, they’ll seem out of place, dumb and stupid, but right now it’s the only way I can talk to you, to myself too. In a fucked up sense, writing it all down is the only intimate thing I can do with you.
These are the letters I’ll never mail to you in prison. The feelings I know I would get you in trouble if they found out what you are and what you mean to me. I’m writing in this book everything I would’ve sent to you if I were free and not frightened, everything you saw on my eyes when I visited you and then had to hold back so no one could tell that we’re lovers. Some friends told me to type these letters and sign a woman’s name, they meant well but they don’t understand how it’s been between us. I don’t know whether you’ll ever read these words… when you get out they won’t fit, they’ll seem out of place, dumb and stupid, but right now it’s the only way I can talk to you, to myself too. In a fucked up sense, writing it all down is the only intimate thing I can do with you.
