Sep 2016
My name doesn't matter because none of you will remember it in 15 years anyway. I'm just a person who you've cracked you door ever so slightly open for and you let both me and the haunting breeze in.
It's good to see you again, we'll beside the many times I stare at your name on the top of my phone screen and the words "compose message" loom just below, like jaws read to swallow every syllable of you're title and digit of your number.
What the ****. I know I've written this message out a thousand times but the only key that felt right was backspace. No that can't be it, let me go back through all twenty six letters until I find something, anything that feels better than nothing at all, please, anything.
I texted God instead, I hadn't spoken with him in years but I needed to ask him if I used a 12 gauge shotgun slug like the ******* Apollo and used the lead to Carry every thought to heaven if my soul would follow it.
But he left me on read.
No no I'm fine I promise. It doesn't hurt to pretend to be strong and it defiantly doesn't drain the life from me that you pretend to care. I'm just a man, reading poems to himself in the bathroom mirror over and over again in the left over mist of a scalding shower he took to prepare himself for hell.
What if the boy who cried wolf was actually just crying to the wolf. They weren't calls for attention but screams that poured out over the edges of the forest on accident, and when the hunters arrived the boy was too afraid to tell them he saw the wolf when peering into the still, blue lake.
Too afraid to cry in front of the hunters, the wolf drug him into the forest and left his screams trapped under the braided rope. Still afraid of being weak, the boy faced himself and was found swinging from an oak, smiling.
It's good to see you again, we'll beside the many times I stare at your name on the top of my phone screen and the words "compose message" loom just below, like jaws read to swallow every syllable of you're title and digit of your number.
What the ****. I know I've written this message out a thousand times but the only key that felt right was backspace. No that can't be it, let me go back through all twenty six letters until I find something, anything that feels better than nothing at all, please, anything.
I texted God instead, I hadn't spoken with him in years but I needed to ask him if I used a 12 gauge shotgun slug like the ******* Apollo and used the lead to Carry every thought to heaven if my soul would follow it.
But he left me on read.
No no I'm fine I promise. It doesn't hurt to pretend to be strong and it defiantly doesn't drain the life from me that you pretend to care. I'm just a man, reading poems to himself in the bathroom mirror over and over again in the left over mist of a scalding shower he took to prepare himself for hell.
What if the boy who cried wolf was actually just crying to the wolf. They weren't calls for attention but screams that poured out over the edges of the forest on accident, and when the hunters arrived the boy was too afraid to tell them he saw the wolf when peering into the still, blue lake.
Too afraid to cry in front of the hunters, the wolf drug him into the forest and left his screams trapped under the braided rope. Still afraid of being weak, the boy faced himself and was found swinging from an oak, smiling.
