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Dear HP,

This is not a poem
But a question
The answer to which
I do hope you have

Why does my lover claim to love me
But still looks for every opportunity
To let me go?

Is it that she loves me so much
But doesn't think she's worthy of me

Or she doesn't love me enough
To think I'm worthy of her?
Panic strikes me
as I realize that
I'm alone

Alone for the first time--
and I don't know
what to do with myself

All these people
Insistent beeping, buzzing,
rolling, shutting

My collective mind
Before my eyes as I have
No one to talk to

thumbing through
my contacts
to find someone


To make me feel wanted,
to feel that my company,
even if through a phone,
is wanted, that I am

As I fold in on myelf
the Layers turning inward,
eating themselves--

The waitress leans down and asks:

Is everything okay?

I respond, muttering:


It's killing me from the outside in
you know...

But I don't say that

As the layers fold,
the only thing that remains
is a scared little girl
just as frightened as she was
the day she opened her eyes
and looked around
and realized how eerily
vast and deep the water was...

It still scares her.
It scares me.
And I realize
that the one thing
I can't stand more than
more than death itself:
is being alone.


Because when I am
alone with my thoughts
That vastness
that deep ocean of nothingness
bathed in a burning, purified chlorine
Haunts me

Because I cannot fill it,
not even with the deepest of thoughts,
the most vivid sentiments
Cannot satisfy the depths
of the reflective blue against
a slate of unfeeling cement
Written: December 17, 2009

Author's Note: I wrote this in a Christmas card that was given to me recently. I was at Wendy's after I went to the movies with a friend. The christmas card was all I had to write in, so I used it. The girl cleaning up must have seen my face ******* up in concentration as I wrote feverishly, and was concerned for me. I find it ironic that she talked to me considering the subject of my poem, but I thought I would share the circumstances with you regardless.

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