Sunday, 5 February 2017


"From letters I'll never send:
I wrote about you a lot. Hell, you're the only thing I wrote about. Sometimes I think that I can't write about anything but you.
I both wrote to kill you and to keep you alive. There were days when I wanted to shed you like shedding old skin cells, I was tired, and you weighed on me, you almost crushed me. I used every letter as a way out, a way for you out of my head, out of my heart and off my skin. Some nights I coughed the words out like blood. Sometimes those words took the shape of your hands and chocked me breathless.
Some nights, the idea of your memory slipping from my mind like water through fingers haunted me. I couldn't lose you. I lost sleep. How can I sleep knowing that tomorrow and each passing day, your scent will fade away, the feeling of your skin will only be words with no meaning, that in a month or two, I'll forget the tingly feeling of your fingertips touching me. So I wrote you out, this time not to kill you, but to keep you.
These nights I don't lay in bed, craving your not-so-holy-anymore skin, and I think to myself this is it, I've wrote you out, I've killed you inside me and gave birth to you on paper.
But here I am a million words later, finding you again in the folds of my brain, and it seems like you've made home there."

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