i used to have a document on my computer entitled "please read this when i'm dead." i toed the line between life and death, never committing to either, just like i could never really commit a boy i liked, but part of me wondered if anyone would ever comment on(more) the document on my desktop, or if anyone even cared.
sometimes i don't eat. it's usually something that just gets lost in day-to-day, as i am perpetually hungry, but i wonder if anyone really notices. friends comment on how i never eat lunch and how my wrists are shrinking but they never tell me to eat, tell me that it's unhealthy and "things do taste as good as skinny feels."
i've started wearing long sweaters. they cover the scars along my arms that i get when i help my dad trim the bushes in our backyard. when we were changing in gym class the girls stared agape at the crossing cuts that xed their way up my arms but no one, not even my best friend, asked me if i was okay, even when i offered no explanation.
does everyone keep to themselves so much that no one cares anymore?(less)
there were three messages
in a box on my shelf
marked 'please read'
hopefully to be found
as i was being buried later on that year
but it didn't work
(more) and no one noticed the scars
so later on
i burned them(less)
A yellowed envelope, crackling with age. The musty smell of a trunk shut too long in a basement. The whisper of aged hands over aged paper.
A simple message on the outside:
A complex message on the inside:
Yes, that's what you are: beloved. I love you.
By the time you see this we'll have faded from one another's lives. With you in Bolivia and me in California, it's inevitable. You might recall me fondly as the other half of a torrid summer affair, a bit of fun, reclaimer of green sea shells, writer of bad yet ardent poetry, so in love with the things under the sea I may as well belong to the ocean myself.
I'll recall you fondly as the one who changed my way of being.
Each time we love, it's a little different. We glimpse another aspect of the same force. When I first loved you it was for the way you danced with me, with the music ringing in your bones. Then it was for your laughter, your kindness. Finally it was for your freedom. When I keep loving you--even as you read this--it will be for your freedom.
The way you dance through life showed me that my own feet aren't as leaden as I thought. You could spend a summer on the beach; study German on top of your English and Spanish, have pen pals anywhere you please; sweep a Californian girl off of her feet. All of it because you wanted to, and you refused to get in your own way.
Life is rapture when you live that way. I'm ready for my own rapture now. You inspired me to reach further.
The sound of nostalgia: thoughtful silence. A smile.(less)
Please, dear. Please read what I have to write because you surely aren't listening to what I have to say. Dear, I can't please you all the time so all I'm asking is that you please read this if it's the last time you will do anything for me.(more) Please.(less)
The tiny pieces of pink crystal tossed so carelessly around us, the maggots, their writhing symbolizes something; the noise of static the taste of nervousness. Cold, black water rising somewhere inside me. We'll drown soon.
The omens were clear. B(more)ad dreams lead to bad days and the anxiety we cart around inside ourself is a tumultuous thing, a reed vessel of serpents.