Of a dreadful correspondence

I wrote you a letter
With the blood of my period
I enclosed it in a pink envelop
With the scent of strawberries
I know you love the scent of strawberries
But you will not love my blood
It will disgust you
It will scare you away
As many features of my being do

Once you get over the idea of the blood
You will come to encounter my words
Of abomination disguised in admiration
Of adoration shielded in the mask of lust
Of a possessive resentment tainted with the sense of deference

But my words will not touch you
My words ceased to stir your fascination
They can scarcely budge your palpable sense of sight
Even less sway your brains
You will be repulsed and dismayed
Refusing to experience any kind of emotion
That might thrive in giving me a sign
That you still have a heart to feel

And I signed my letter

Truly yours,
Numbness