I haven’t finished reading Lolita. I still haven’t finished reading Lolita. It has been four months. I pick it up, read two sentences, and put the little pink ribbon back in its spot. I put it down and sigh, I stare at it, I stare a hole through it.

I am terrified to finish it, I am only 5-10 pages from the end. I have been since the midway through July. The first few weeks it helped me deal with my emotions, but now I just cant help think that as soon as I finish the final chapter that we will also be done. Part of me wants to finish the book, the adult part of me that knows when to move on. The Little part of me wants nothing more than to hold on to the hope that my Humbert will get in his car and drive all over North America hunting for me, threatening every man who gets in his way. By the time you do though, you will find that it is far too late and I’ve forgotten all about you.

You already leave me exposed and naked to the world too often, too long. I cant hold it against you, as much as I want to. I will always come back and blame myself. I don’t tell you about anything that you do that upsets me because I don’t like causing you extra strain & stress, especially since I am so secondary…or tertiary at this point. However I know that when we do talk you will tell me that I should have just asked, or told you, at which point I will kick myself for not being more forward. But every time Ive been forward with you Ive gotten the exact opposite of what I wanted, so my learned behaviour reflects the lessons Ive been given.

Lolita still sits there with her tiny legs crossed, her little shoe dangling off of her tiny foot held on by the sheer hope of her delicate big toe, and she smirks at me. I don’t know what she wants, but I know she knows something I do not, and that frightens me. She knows the end to this Nabokovian love letter.

Show me your filth, show me where you live. Emote for me – let me see your ravenous animal. Ive seen you without clothing, Ive seen you in pain; now let me see you naked, writhing under your own emotions. Respond with your gut, let it twist up in your face.

Stop being in control.
Lose control.
Give up control.
Surrender control.

Giving me what I want isnt as simple as a few words to quell the storm. Get lost at sea with me, drown with me. Fight against the current and be swept into the undertow.

Dig it out of the sticky red mess, bury it in the cold black soil, and unearth it to let me see the decay. Graze me with your broken edges, bleed me with your emotions. Hearticulate with me.