Dear Pichouette,

As I attempted to cut you out of me, I caught my reflection in the mirror and noticed that all the color had seeped from my skin into a pool of blood on the tile floor. I know how badly it must have stung when I sliced through that first bit of flesh; I felt the same sting.

Now I know that you were never any kind of parasite here to infest me and starve me dead from the inside. You were never any sort of virus here to destroy my body and decay my brain. You were never any type of predator, hungry enemy, here to drag me down and devour me. You were me all along. I have been working all this time on tearing myself limb from limb because it is no longer possible to tell where you end and I begin. If I stitch it up now, I know it will scar, but I think that will be easier than killing us both. I don't care how bad it looks. I just want it to heal.

I am so sorry.