Did you know that being home alone is the leading cause of
my loneliness?

Let me explain

at first, the silence is deafening
so you turn on the TV
or some music
and that helps

later on, the music starts seeming depressing
the songs about people are mocking you
the songs about love are arrows piercing your skin
the songs about anything else are few and far between
so you turn it off

so you make your own noise
you open and close every door
just to hear the sound
you drum on pots and pans and whatever's nearby
to see what the difference between
a refrigerator door and freezer door is

then you start talking
telling the coffee maker to hurry up
or getting mad at the milk jug for spilling on the counter

then you start spewing nonsense like
do deer have feelings, or are they just sad?
a whole conversation with yourself about nothing
gibberish

then rock bottom.

calling your mom even though you know she won't answer
so you have a guarantee that she'll call back
and someone will talk to you today
you text someone with a broken phone
or rather, you open your phone to a picture message
of your friend with someone else
even though you asked them to hang out earlier
but then again, maybe they didn't get it
you tell yourself
their phone is broken, after all
but then again, they seem to get everyone else's

you make way too much food
just so you can eat until you feel sick
because
WHAT THE HELL ELSE IS THERE TO DO

After a while,
I usually end up wandering around the house
yelling "****" until I feel better
my throat is hoarse

this is an open letter to anyone who has the audacity to try and love you like i did.

dear whateverthefuckyournameis,

i apologize in advance for spilling my boiled blood on the hem of your skirt. what you need to understand, is that you are standing on ground previously reserved for my feet, so forgive me for any bitterness that seeps through the cracks in my clenched fists. i don't hate you, but i can't be your friend. you probably don't know about me, and if you do, let me commend your bravery. i have a tendency to set my problems on fire, and in my bouts of anger everything looks flammable, especially girls with paper complexions. i'm sorry. i have never been one to walk away, so i don't know how to explain to you the holes in the bottoms of my shoes. but i have been further than you will ever go. this is not supposed to be an angry letter, but lately that's the only thing coming out of me. i don't even know your name but the thought of your hands reaching for him makes we want to break them. i will douse your dreams in gasoline and strike the match against your cheek. but i know that's not right, see, the poison crawling out from the end of my pen belongs to a scarier version of myself i try not to know. my heartache is an insatiable war cry in the dead of night, that will stop at nothing to shatter all your windows. it shames me to admit that i've found a sort of twisted satisfaction in using passive aggression to breach your armor. i am sick with missing a set of arms i was not privileged enough to know. i speak with all the grace of an atom bomb and wonder about the rubble at my feet. you are white picket fence and i am barbed wire. some girls are lions, some are lambs, and i learned to love, teeth bared and snarling. one of the only things that keeps me going is the hope that one day i'll learn how to love something without making it bleed. i may have never been his, but for a time he was mine, so please understand why i taste acid when i think about your mouth on his. again, i am sorry. i know it is not my place to be so full of resentment, but there is a part of me that sincerely hopes it bothers you to know he dreamt of me before you were even a thought. there is a side of me that thrives on the image of the color being drained from your face when you read this. but i am trying to learn how to be softer. this letter is the manifestation of a self-inflicted war that has been raging in my chest since he first told me about you. you will try to be good to him, and you might even succeed. if you ever find yourself singing him to sleep, like i did, don't ask if he wants to hear another song, just keep going until his breathing slows.

- m.f.