I've wrinkled up the letters,
Wet with ice and tears.
And there's no point in,
Putting them in between the old pages,
Of books to straighten them.

It's likely that you'll find me,
In the windowsill, burning,
Tiny shreds and throwing them down,
Hoping to burn a piece of my memory,
Hoping they disintegrate into the ground.

"The letters aren't gonna do it for you,
You have to go, too."
My thin dress is exposing my heartbeat,
Racing fast as the grass gets closer to me.
Crackling of bone and flames.

On the old apartment building,
The ***** bricks are sticky with something.
A couple screams and runs away.
The sirens are so faint.
There goes my dreaming days.