I had a panic attack yesterday. When I passed you on the way to the bank, you looked right at me. It was just for a second, but I saw everything. Your new sunglasses, your longer hair, your hint of a summertime tan. I made it into the parking lot before I broke down. 
I’ve walled the memories of us up, shut them out so effectively that most of the time it seems like everything we had only happened in a dream. Seeing you, out there in the real world, so unexpectedly, shattered everything. It’s not easy to ignore a problem when it’s looking you in the face. And it’s not a problem I’m yet prepared to deal with.
The result was a raw, teary-eyed, chest-heaving mess of a girl in my car. I could sense the stares of the people pulling into the spaces on either side of me but didn’t dare return their gazes. I wonder if they thought I was crazy. Who could blame them?
I tell myself everyday that I can move on, but I haven’t. I remind myself you were never really mine, but I was absolutely yours. I only want you to know that everything I wrote in the letter I gave you remains true, and I miss you.
I miss you.


This will probably be edited.

So this is my vengeance, words bladed, the weapons inflicting a lesson you won’t be forgetting.

You vanished, a ghost, no warning, no note, just left me alone with no love and no hope.

And I pleaded, I cried, I repeatedly tried to find you, remind you, of what were just lies.

And now that I know that you’re fickle and low, that you’d break me, degrade me, and drop me for show,

I will tell you this once, pay attention, please, dunce, now and forever: fuck off, you cunt.

This will probably be edited.


The last few months

my memory has blanks

as though my brain’s got buckshot damage

and everything seeps slowly out of one hole

while I’m trying to patch another.

It’s like staying up late after a long day

and lying in bed thinking

about what you did that same morning

as the twilight of sleep grips you

and when you wake up

you have no idea

what you dreamed and what actually happened.


Sometimes entire days go missing

and I won’t even notice

unless someone mentions a conversation

I don’t remember having.

I have clothes on I don’t remember buying.

I have leftover food I don’t remember tasting.

I have books on the shelf I don’t remember reading.


But I can remember

from two weeks ago

the sweet mint on your breath

the first time you kissed me.

I can still feel

the cool closeness

of your forehead against mine.

I can still smell

the musk of your curls

the first time I tousled them with my fingers

after having spent a year imagining doing so

every time I saw you.

I remember

your warm palm against mine

and your fingers so long

that you could fold them back down

over the ends of my own.

I memorized

our limbs intertwined

and our torsos pressed together

and the smiles

that crept across our faces

like wildfire

that night and for days after.


And even now

when the distance between us

because you’re scared

because you don’t love yourself enough

to love anyone else

has caused the twinge in my chest

and the vacancy in my days

to seem overwhelming

I don’t want to forget you.

And anyway, I can’t forget

the feeling of hope

that has pulsed through my veins

with every heart beat

since the first time you grinned at me.


The most honest letter.

You told me that you’re a porcupine. That’s okay, but what if I’m not? What if I’m an armadillo? I don’t care if you’re depressed, emotionally fucked up, damaged from drug use, or whatever else you might see when you look at your life. I see a quiet kid who makes me smile so much my face hurts. I see a complicated kid who wrecks in video games with me but also cares about Vonnegut, Buddhism, and the environment. And I like you, good and bad. I don’t want to hurt you or change you.


I realize now I barely knew you before we slept together. To be honest, I had no idea that it would change so much, that I’d feel this way about you afterward. And that’s my fault. And if I’ve made you uncomfortable, if this letter is crazy, I’m so sorry. If all you want to be is friends, that’s okay, you only have to say that.


But if you want something else, something more, I wish you’d show me. I thought I felt it when you kissed me, when you rested your forehead against mine, but I haven’t seen it since then. You warned me that you’re inconsistent, but the difference between that night and being lied to this weekend has left me with no idea of what you might want from me. Armadillos can’t block confusion, so if you want something beyond friends, show me.



Whatever happens now is up to you. Friends, more, nothing at all, just let me know.



I hope it fits. You’re so noodly and they didn’t carry a spaghetti size. <3

The most honest letter.

Daydreaming – updated.

My backpack looks forlorn.

Maybe because it is full of unwanted responsibility.

Notebooks send furtive glances my way.

They clearly scream, “Use us! Please? Just a note or two!”

And the cool, smooth desktop does not forgive

the long absences for homework procrastination.

But my chair is warm and comfortable

(someone’s on my side)

and I imagine the desk away.

I dream of times sans desolate desktops,

eras without waiting assignments.

I envision hot, wet air. It is palpable.

It weighs me down

(like my neglected homework)

and glosses every inch of skin with sweat.

I see greenery. Everything is green.

And damp, like me.

An inviting breeze blows through the trees to my left.

I turn to face it, relishing the relief from the heat.

Yanking a foot from the muddy mire beneath me

I plod in that direction, arms outstretched, each finger extended

grazing feathery ferns and thick, parchment petals,

relieving them of their dew.

I cross a stream, glittering with sunlight

where a simple stegosaurus stops for a sip.

I pass a triceratops taking a tour around a clearing

filled with torridly pink flora.

Stepping softly through a curtain of vines

I emerge on the other side

And I am at once aware that I am as soaked as though the vines were a waterfall

and I am face to face

with rows and rows

of large, sparkling razors.

No, wait.

Those are just teeth.

Just… tyrannosaur teeth. And tyrannosaur breath

which gushes out of his mouth

against my face

as he tries to smell me out.

I am not being subtle.

My forehead is twice as damp as it was before I noticed

I was about to be somebody’s lunch

and I can smell my own armpits.

Presently, he slaps me with that slimy, smelly tongue.

And I know it is all over.

His head whips back,

I kiss my ass goodbye,

and right before I’m snapped in half

like an overcooked fish stick,

I wake up.

And I am in my chair.

And the only rampaging T-rex I am likely soon to see

is my Professor

upon learning of my extensive neglect

of her classwork.

Daydreaming – updated.