I wrote to you in the month of June. Tucked away in my bedroom like a piece of silver hidden away in a jewellery box, or a mint comic book still in its plastic packaging. I wrote in red gel pen stolen from my history teacher; because when I was six they told me red was the colour of love and I was sure that’s what I was feeling.

I wrote to you in the month of August. On a park bench; the beating sun caressing my body. I wore a long sleeved flannel shirt and opened toe sandals. I wrote in a blue felt tip I found in my brothers bedroom when I helped my mother pack the room up. I’d practiced my handwriting over thirty three times because I wanted you to fall in love with the way I dotted my I’s and looped my L’s.

I wrote to you in the month of October. In the library at school, between the graphic novel section and the romance section. My knobbly knees to my chest and soft music in my ears. I wrote in black biro, borrowed from the boy who used to call me beautiful but then asked out my best friend, because they told me that black biro was the only thing we could use in exams. That the exam board wouldn’t accept red gel pen or blue felt tip. My handwriting was different. We were different.
I wrote to you in the month of December. Wrapped up in a blanket but still shivering; downstairs in the lonely house. I wrote in a pencil I’d acquired earlier that year from somewhere now forgotten because pencil lead is grey and that’s how I was feeling. They told me when I was in math class at fourteen to do all my workings out in pencil in case I made a mistake. And I made so many. Apparently it’s easy to erase it’s existence, leave no trace of it ever existing to start with. It seemed so fitting because that’s exactly how I felt with you