Dear Lia,

Lia, I am writing because our stories are gone. They were erased in a shameful fit of sanity, but now that I'm mad again, I need them.
I know that our stories can't come back because you've erased every trace of me, painted over me with thick, white acrylic to make room for something with fewer flaws.
This leaves me to tape up my mouth and bind my hands. This leaves me to chew my tongue and scar my palms with half-moon grooves. This leaves me to bite my nails 'til they bleed, just to keep my hands and mouth too busy to signal something significant.
When it gets dark, I light a candle to you; I wrap my arms around my body straightjacket-style and try to remember what came after once upon a time. The things I remember are better than the things we erased—no grabbing for gold, no accommodating the enemy, no star-crossing, just lovers. And this is the way that it should be. A soft madness cradles me to sleep.

Always,
Desirée