ϟ “Do they sense it, these dead writers, when their books are read? Does a pinprick of light appear in their darkness? Is their soul stirred by the feather touch of another mind reading theirs? I do hope so.”
myself:
if they wanted to have any kind of contact w/ you they would have initiated it.
me:
alright, neat, neat concept, but communication is actually a two-way street so
myself:
they have no desire to speak to you and never have any desire to speak to you, ever. they never think of you. they will never think of you, at all, ever, even in passing. you are nothing.
me, tossing my phone out the window:
alright! neat! awesome! fantastic!
NIGHT ONE. I have a sandstorm
in the throat.
For each time your letter reads
RETURN TO SENDER, I despair.
I want to split these vocal cords &
spit them out of my mouth.
NIGHT TWO. Dearest, I am
smothered. For my lungs are like a
hummingbird’s, & the ardor in your
rib cage is like the hatchet with which
you crush it.
I dread the sand grains in my larynx will
raise a bile in my throat & this tongue
will say things it never wished to.
NIGHT THREE. Her love is like
the flicker of a lamplight; it shines
through, coruscates, and fades away.
❝It’s okay to walk away.
You’re allowed to leave this place. You’re allowed to leave toxic people. You’re allowed to say no without explaining why. You’re allowed to quit something that you don’t really love.
You can move freely.
You’re allowed to start over with something else.
You’re allowed to fail and try and try again.❞
