There was a time when you dated these letters but I don’t know when it happened. I would say that is my biggest failure, save for the fact that I referred to it as it, and worse yet, I did it again. But I don’t. It could be today. Yesterday. Some other sad sad day where my words don’t reach you and yours don’t either and others do, in a body that feels rented, borrowed, and thrown to be abused or recycled. Into a pop can for example. Something bending. Breaking. That could cut in shredded villainy if you could come close enough to them, all of them. To me too.
You did, for a while, against a pulse that was spent as a wild animal in sugary highs that were easy, bubbly. I used to think I’d be with you to only get closer. Melted and one. Burning for each other always.
I should’ve shown you this flame. Should’ve explained this directedness instead of wilting away into a silvery soap, withering away from your own body. How many times did you clean yourself? How dirty do you remain?
I want you to know that there is no answer. You are not, will not be, can never be soiled, though there are mistakes that I can never forgive you for and for some I am sure you can’t do the same for me. But I want to say that I should’ve held you and cried and said how cruel the world was and how beautiful it could be too with you and how it wasn’t now, may never be again, and how I had failed and failed and failed and how still, in some comedic way, it wasn’t my fault, wasn’t yours either. I should’ve looked at you as you poked yourself with empty, wild eyes. I should’ve grabbed a big fat hungry needle and punctured myself until the air rushed in like a wave missing the beach, or a kite forgetting the wind, me shaking, you telling me to stop it stop it, me there saying fuck this hurts, you hurt, we hurt as I bled for us both. I should’ve combed my fingers over your body of terrors like a child being tickled, unsure if I was the child or you were. I should’ve sat with you in nights that were very dark and moments that were very silent and turn on the light, read, write, try to remind you of all that brought us here in the too much, the every very now. I should’ve yelled and yelled and yelled one word after another limping other to make you tell me, to have me want to hear it, to hear how it was for you to be being been – terribly and fully and spectacularly. I should’ve been full as well – unsure if I could hear more but still finding myself already there. I should’ve listened endlessly like a dog not understanding but perky, happy, ears to your world and inflection. I should’ve told you how grossly inadequate I felt because I didn’t know what to say and that was all I knew how to say. I should’ve mentioned how lucky I felt, how wonderful you are, you remain. I should’ve looked at you ridiculously, lost as an abstract painting, as the painter, as the paint, as the pain, as your eyes breathing me in before kissing you entirely, from the absurd pinky to the last hair twist on the top. I should’ve remembered how when in a conversation of friends, I’d look to you already looking at me. I should’ve set myself on fire so you could see some light in the dark. I should’ve gazed at your face as generous geography, a few ridges and edges and caverns that I could travel but not know, only touch briefly then forget and have to touch again. I should’ve said how you were a person I would spent my whole night trying to get to know if we didn’t already know how much we had gotten together as people. I should’ve let you tell me awfully and awesomely, radiantly and rad, to come close. I should’ve said I was closed and disgusted and watch you giddy that I will prove all the alive agony you already feel, all the hurt you know, all that made you unmake you, that I will hit you, that I will destroy you, that I will raise my hand and end you for you are hoping for an ending where you are less tired and spent and worn than now, and I should’ve hugged you. Deeply. Ceaselessly. I should’ve loved you. I should’ve seen past my stupidity and self-absorption, should’ve trudged with the determination that kept me with you longer than anyone, kept me in your faraway eyes, that made me sink with your sinking until I knew what it was to give you my breath against your drowning. I should’ve drowned with you and in some way remember I did – forgetting my body was precious and all I had until it was what I didn’t have any longer, silence spent not telling you what I should’ve done, doing it anyways, losing both. I should’ve known this was not enough. I should’ve said how I tried to kill myself, how I got pretty good at it, how I was smart with it, careful, more detailed than I had ever been with you. I should’ve been detailed with you. And I should’ve told you that I’d be there in a second friendship though we skipped the first and I should’ve said we’d talk about other things beside us, though we were a lot, and that we’d see what we could be apart and happy not for being separated but for having the chance to like a city fading in the distance from a plane, hand out and useless against a window. Snoring later, maybe. Dreaming, always.
I should’ve awoken and said assault. I should’ve watched you shed you. I should’ve seen you as a person who stabbed herself with a pin repeatedly to try to find her hole and whole and reclaim her body through some control against the pain that will find her, that takes her, that wasn’t skin I had touched but cartilage and fat and hair that would crumble eventually or maybe now if there’s a stab hard enough. That is a bit of colours and surfaces and angles that will never be totally taken in. That is dizzy with day deadening, that is dying currently, that is beyond repair but that is still making up for it all in red and yellow. And I should’ve seen you as more than this.
But it became gray October, white November. December. January. Still at it. New Years. February. Don’t go. I’m feeling it. March. He’s gone I’m gone we’re gone, though we don’t know it yet. April. Gone. May. Gone gone gone. Known and unknown. Who is this? Who am I?
I don’t know still and in stillness, but I do know all this spoiling should’ve been different but wasn’t. I am sorry for it. I do mean it for I am mean it.
I know you are fine not because you are but because you are reading this all the way. Keep going there. All the way. I will meet you there one day. I will not know the date then either.
Love you madly,
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