Jon couldn’t speak, and when he'd run out of paper he'd leave notes on me. So I’d wake up in the morning with —Be back at eight, on my arms or —Meet me for dinner? on my legs and walk around the rest of the day with the ink scorching into my skin, until I fell asleep with his compliments (—Your eyes look beautiful tonight, —I like your dress, —Your hair’s so soft, —Your neck smells good) resting in between my fingers.

I could relive conversations from weeks ago: at work I’d peer closely at my collarbones to find the traces of a joke that I’d laughed at two nights previously; or when I laid in bed at night I could feel the marks on my skin where he’d pressed the pen-nib too hard during an argument. I never had an excuse for forgetting a meal or not giving him a call, and sometimes when I shaved after a lazy week I would find Jon's foreplay remaining underneath.

One night he wrote all over me: —I love you, on my arms; —I love you, all around my legs; —I love you, moving up from my breasts, onto my neck before it went up to my ears and around my jaw. —I love you, travelled across my cheek and —I love you, was gently pressing on my Cupid’s bow, rising onto my snub nose. —I love you, came up to my eyes then spread out, covering my forehead and bordering on my widow’s peak. —I love you, was on my back, rippling over the top of my shoulder blades, then went down and curled round my hips (more than one fitted onto my love handles), brushing past my navel and —I love you, reached down into my jeans.

The next day I took a long shower, watching as the —I love yous all washed into each other and dripped off my body, back into ink that circled around the drain and disappeared in the water. The deep black liquid mess swirled around the bottom of the tub—leaving traces on the bath edge—as I watched the twisting reflection of my eyes stare back at me from the inky pool.

After a while, the usual eight month time period that I had become used to marking out the estimated span of my lovelife, the messages became excuses. —Sorry I’ll be back late tonight, and —Had to leave early, became prominent; the placing less thoughtful—so I would catch a train with —Gonna meet some friends, resting on the back of my neck. It became so that I wouldn’t see Jon—he was a ghost, moving around in my apartment and leaving all his traces on me that built up a one-way conversation. I could feel that I was losing him: every message seemed less permanent, less tangible, less real. We became less of each other, although it still felt like I was all of him. Whenever I saw Jon it felt like a prize—until he wouldn’t pick up his pen to write for me and the disappointment rained in. The messages faded on my skin and it became long periods in-between before a new coat was applied. We lived like this, slowly falling away for months, both becoming as mute as each other: silenced not by brain damage but by insecurities and fear.

Until one day I woke up to find Jon missing by self-abduction and finally it was just —I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, all over my body. —I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, was against my cream complexion, reaching as far as it could go and —I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, was blotting up my pores with its thick ink and coarse lettering. He put the words into abstract patterns so that —I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, —I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, was in mathematical regiments; spiraling in the golden ratio and creating a snail’s shell where my cleavage used to be, before I was raped by time. You could tell where —I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, became distracted so it became pictures of landscapes: the words sprouted up from my backside into forests and vines and leaves; and clouds of —I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, floated below my hairline. It was put everywhere, even over my eyelids. The ink seeped into each crevasse in my body, and it was always, —I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, —I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, until the words didn’t mean anything.  

—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, —I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, —I’M SORRY, I’M SO SORRY, —I’M SORRY, I’M SO SORRY, and I didn’t wash for weeks, letting the ink blend into my skin so that not a single —I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, remained. All around the apartment you could see where I had been collapsing because, —I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, —I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, was smeared on my walls and for weeks all I could feel pressing on me was —I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, —I’M SORRY, I’M SO SORRY, until I was just an ink blot huddling on the bed, pulsating and heaving as the words crashed around me and my eyes carved out tracks of clear skin from the darkness. —I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, sunk from my skin to my capillaries before moving into my veins; the words flowed round in my bloodstream like Chinese Whispers until they’d been circulating for so long that my heart beat —I’m sorry, and my lungs breathed —I’m so sorry. Jon’s note crept into my brain so it was all that I thought and slunk round into my eyes so it was all I could see: —I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, —I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, —I’M SORRY, I’M SO SORRY, —I’M SORRY, I’M SO SORRY, tormenting this strange black changeling that now lived in my apartment and was imprisoned by ink.

Then I went and washed him all away.