letters never sent.

(Lololololol dying. Whatever the hell you quote, make sure you do it on vintage wallpaper.)

Dear you, you, and you,

I never thought I would send you a letter before I texted you back. Before I called. Before we had another conversation. Note: This is not a conversation. I am doing all the talking, and whether you listen or not, there is no room for any more interruptions. 

What I remember about you: skin skin skin skin. Sweat. I have starved myself. I have cut myself. But I strangled my heart in the chase for your collarbones and it cut deeper than my razor.

And it's one of those days where you listen to the music of the broken dishes. And when you write reminders on your lover's hand, you're caught looking at blurred ink the next day on your throat.. This is what the romance novels call passion, porn calls S&M, and the police call abuse.

I'm not asking you to leave God behind. I'm asking you to purchase a plane ticket. I'm not asking you to stop gambling with death or her sisters. I'm asking you to wear sunscreen. I'm not asking you to swear that you love me. To remember me when you and your old bones' reality is getting out of bed in the morning alone. Regret. That's one thing. Forget. That's another.

I was afraid of my temper. And the day I hit you, you hit me back. And my mind screamed "WRONG," but my mouth threaded itself shut without a needle, and my tongue was stuck with all the heaviness of a lead weight.

They told me I wasn't loud enough. I wasn't crazy enough. I wasn't spontaneous enough. I wasn't funny enough. I wasn't pretty enough. I couldn't keep your attention long enough. I was too annoying. I talked too much. I tried too hard. I was too quiet. I was too nice. I was too easy. I was too much of a doormat. I was too "good." I was too much of a slut. I wouldn't have sex. I would have sex. I was too naive. I was too dark. I was too fat. I was too scarred. I was too broken. I had too many problems. I was too crazy in the bedroom. I was too angry all the time. I was too depressed. I was too much of a feminist. I was too needy. I didn't text enough. I could never hang out enough. I was too opinionated. I was too insecure. I was too much. I was too little. I didn't have enough friends. I didn't wear the right clothes. I didn't do my hair. I didn't "fit in" with his friends. I didn't do this. I didn't do that. I WAS NEVER FUCKING ENOUGH FOR HIM. HIM. OR HIM. OR HIM. HIM. HIM. HIM. HIM. HIM. I'm a fucking contradiction, apparently.

Caution: For God's sake, this is a park. Pick up after your brain. Climb a tree and don't mind how you fell to the top before you reached the bottom.

And when we died, I went to hell and you went to heaven. And no matter how many notes I stuck in the suggestions box, you didn't join me any more than I joined you. Final judgment is real shit, "final" and all that.

I should go to the hospital and deliver speeches. Words of wisdom. To the babes barely hatched from their eggs hours ago, newly delivered from the stork's nest. "You'll hear it's a 'dog eat dog' world out there. But they're preparing you for the wrong shit. It's a 'death eat human eat human' paradise, then perhaps some pretty puppy as a bedtime snack." Perhaps they'll one day realize the metaphorical significance of it all.

And in the end, I was love and I was reckless, and I was against you and the rest of the world. You were lust and I was determined, and no matter how much I wanted the jock or the hipster or the druggie or the _________, you drowned in your superficiality when it was sink or swim. I was the afterthought.

and if you ask me why i swear, i'll tell you i'm one of those "typewriter people." 

P.S. My sister asked me why she didn't get any sugar to help the medicine go down. I told her we had to prepare ourselves for different kinds of medicine.