Prose

Can I talk to you? I'm scared.

Dear John,

I am miserable, but not because of you. But somehow, this feeling has now christened itself as the tsunami of emotion that I had to inhale for twenty months. My lungs are filled with saltwater and rubbish and I am coughing up every word I have ever written about you because this is not your fault. But, damn, I would not know the difference. You have carved your name into the stone of my skin as if you will come back. Every time it gets hard to breathe, every nerve in my body screams your name like a curse. I can no longer associate you with the swirling pool of sweet water that is love; when I fall in love again, I will not think of you. But when he breaks my heart and I am curled under a thick blanket with tremors that could wreck a planet coursing through my veins, you will be the first thing that crawls from the dusty, cobwebbed corners of my mind.

Dear John, my bones are cracking and I don't know why.

August 11, 2014 1:47am