one hundred seventy-two

I am writing you this letter that you should never read. I am writing it on the back of the postcards of you, sent from places in my mind.

I don’t smile for you or cry for you and I’ll find myself dead and gone the day before I live for you; but, you know, my pride is a dirty little liar: sniveling and quick to temper and clever enough to have me burden it willingly. Insidious, isn’t it? And terribly embarrassing, but, I assure you, acting as though I don’t…, will never…, have never…, every day is blush-worthy enough without letting it down to walk beside me. The pride I carry is a backbreaking shred, but it’s mine. 

I do not need to tell you any of this, and you do not need to know.

I am not a stupid girl, but I am. I wonder what it’s like, like the rest of them, I suppose. I wonder how you’d fight and how you’d fuck and I wonder how my skin would crawl if I knew either. I wonder how my fingers would itch if I were given any chance to know you, how your hate makes you glow, or how your love makes you sick. I feel like a pervert. Dirty. Simple. I am not a stupid girl, but-oh-god-I am, and you are beautiful. How beautiful are you?  

I will not bother you, at least, not enough to bother you.  I will watch dull movies and listen to awful songs and ask you to smile for me, on occasion. You will forget and I will say, in serious jest, you are lucky I love you, boy (and you are). And I will smile because you have already become distracted. It doesn’t matter, in the scheme of things. It doesn’t matter that I get tired of it. It doesn’t matter. Not really. You ought to be grateful; grateful in the I-for-one-sure-as-Hell-am sense.

I am tearing every letter I wrote before. I am tearing the postcards sent from behind the closed doors in my mind. I am letting them burn.


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