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i have nobody to write this letter to.
i want this hung up on a wall,
50 feet tall,
and passed on from
generation to generation.
i’m only kidding.
instead of loving the sound of my voice,
i love the curves of my penmanship.
i thrive off of what i put onto these waves of
i want to talk about life and death and anything
i want to know what it’s like to be homeless
or part of the aristocracy.
i hope i never know the bounds of
i get three hours of sleep,
and four if i’m lucky.
in those twenty hours, i eat twelve apples—
one fore each month i forget.
i make sure to swallow every bite,
except for the core,
and then cuddle up with my dogs
in a heart on the floor.
we dream of cats and mountains
and trees with squirrels;
our lives intertwine in this whimsical world.
i wake up with the scum on my face
and in the rugged box society has so kindly thrown
my life into.
i wake up to a materialistic place
filled with obscurities and the
insecurities my parents have both become
i’m stuck in this mental gridlock between
time and space.
i hated those flowers you gave me so much
that i put them in a vase filled with the
liquid explosives of my brain
and i threw a grenade of my allergies after it
to make sure you didn’t
run after me.
there was one before.
he ceased to be mine after i
stopped counting the kisses in our
and decided to start fondling
misses after misses;
and never did i miss an opportunity for
a taste of their faces.
i unlaced all of their ribbons
and snuck under dresses,
turning my bedroom into
mess after messes.
and i don’t miss a single scent.
he had a way with words though.
he would speak in declarations,
but never with intent for conversation.
he had a certain charm,
but there was always foul
and always harm;
and never will he apologize.
at least, not in front of the guys.
there was another.
he abandoned our exploration of curiosity
and personal growth.
he swept me away into a land so foreign to my train of thought
and my road to affection.
i was demoted to the typical clown
with a painted smile
and an infinite frown,
for weeks and weeks with no farewell speech
or simple wave or blink or chance to breathe.
i hope your strings come undone
and hinder your chance for everlasting
love, or was it
they say it’s for the weak;
and perhaps there is truth to that.
perhaps i was meant to make my reality
as fantastic as my
since i can’t sleep long enough to
grow all of my trees with squirrels,
or converge more mountains of
ice and stone,
or record the musical stylings of
hands and moans and xylophones
constructed of my bones
look at me.