Message in a Cyberbottle

The words from the future,
Of your long-dead wife,
Harvest the sheaves,
Of the heart:
A hallucinatory scythe.

True, the pain is imaginary,
But my mind is all I have,
So oft I am more wary,
Than necessary.

So:

Here lies the love,
That I hoped to posses,
When in fact it disguised,
The love to undress.

The bruises don't heal,
When consoled by a friend,
The abuse will repel,
Lest a friendship end.

And although my mother,
And sisters,
And brothers,
Were prone to love others,

I love only myself,
And my self is my cover.