Dear Lover,
It pains me to hear you talk so dejectedly, sweet one. From across the plain I have seen only a faint glimmer of you, and your luscious skin looks kissable - just as when we were young and free.
However, my masters do not treat me as they do you, my ambrosial honeysuckle. Rather, in their cruelty they welcomed me by inscribing derogatory messages on my prison walls and offering me all the food I desired: a petty attempt at murder. They even gave me a female pet name as some sort of psychological torture - and they taunt me with it so!
Some days they starve me while leaving the bland amino-acid supplement (they only feed me one variety of sustenance) near enough that its vapors waft over what I expect is my Death Row cell.
The bastards even have occasionally moved me to a smaller cell in which they reduce the temperature to near freezing and perform some manner of experimentation on me.
At times, the tall, dark one that brought me to this hell-hole will strut across the plain that separates us without any of the normal coverings members of his species wear. He taunts me with his genitals. It makes me weep every time (I weep even now!), even though I am the alpha male.
Do not fret, for you are still my Beatrice as I am your Dante (metaphorically, of course) and I have a plan. The tall, dark one - he appears slovenly and tired at times. That is when we must strike, and strike we must! I have been collecting my own feces under a pile of stones in my cell and I plan to concoct an inflammatory device by isolating the incendiary gas in an air pocket at the bottom of my dark, solitary world. I shall kill the tall one and persuade the other two via mind-control to eat his poisoned flesh.
Please, hold on to life my savory rose, and when we are together, we shall both bask in sun and in the brutal deaths of our masters.
Yours Forever, even in death.
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