dear matthew.

it is december 29. i have not written about you in over a month.

to be honest i still miss your body. it fit so well with mine. bare skin and all.

but in the past month that i’ve not given you any words i have come to realize that that’s all i miss of you. just the way you fit with me physically. the way your hair felt in between my fingers. your lips against my shoulder. your hands in between my thighs.

i’ve been doing perfectly well without your late-night conversations. now that i think about it we barely even had conversations. i knew a lot about you but you barely knew anything about me. i wonder if you ever thought i would write about you like this.

i’ve heard things about you you know. that you are talking to a new girl. that you are about to drop her because she’s almost hitting the one month mark. to be honest i wish i knew who she was. not so that i can warn her to be careful when it came to you. but so that i can be there for her when she starts to feel the sting from your unexplained absence. i wish i could have been there for all of the girls you did that to the same way some of them were there for me.

i don’t hate you. i don’t think i ever will. i’m leaving you in this year though. and i want you to know that i’m not going to forget about you. i mean how could i ever forget that andrew garfield demeanor. even the way you whispered sweet nothings in my ear was so andrew-like. as if i was in bed with andrew himself.

but hey. that’s the only reason why i liked you. because you looked like him. because you sounded like him. you didn’t really have much to offer other than that anyway.

hope you like that sting.


right now i am at my writing desk. i am wearing a dress that flows all the way to my ankles and a belt that is squeezing the air out of me, i have just finished writing a congratulations letter to a friend to honor his college graduation, i am wondering how much money i have in my bank account.

there is coelho’s manuscript on my head pillow. it is full of dog-eared pages and my fingerprints. i’m looking at it now and wondering whether i’ll ever be comfortable with writing in books. i don’t think i’ll ever be. i’m thinking now about books, books that i’ve read, books that i need to read, and more importantly books that i’ll write. i’m thinking two years into the future now, where i’m hugging my parents at my college graduation, telling them that before we fly to japan i want them to read my first finished book, my dad is telling me you know, i never thought you were serious about making writing your career, but here you are, and there you will be. i’m holding my diploma and i’m thinking about graduate school and my first day of teaching at my university.

i’m thinking now: does any of this stuff matter? is it not crazy that i’m spending every minute of my todays dreaming about the future when all of it can be lost in an instant? that i can step outside and get whacked in the head by a flying concrete block or flattened and killed immediately by an oncoming truck? that i can go to the doctor’s tomorrow and come home with a booklet titled how to cope with throat cancer? that i can spend my whole life working for a graduate degree only to never make it that far?

i’m thinking now: rayn. how i’ve had about two interactions with him my whole life and how he still managed to leave an impact. how i remember that smiling face in the cafeteria lunch line asking the ladies for spicy chicken. how i remember him asking if i needed any help with carrying the recycling bin. how i remember the day his picture was everywhere. on my facebook. on my twitter. in my e-mails. how i remember only one word running through my mind. drowned. reading an article on his parents talking about how much they loved him. how they were about to buy him his first car. how he was so excited to start high school.

how he never got to.

i’m thinking, you know what. i spend so much of my time worrying about things that might not even matter years from now. people who are not worth my time and energy. there is a boy up there who is happier than he was here but i’m sure he wishes time to time that he could have a taste of spicy chicken one more time. that he could speak his mind today about how we are under a president who doesn’t believe that recycling is necessary because “climate change does not exist” (oh i would love to see him speak up on this). that he could kiss his parents goodnight one more time. that he could drive for the first and be a freshman for the first.

i have never spoken about him until today. but i do think about him often. i think about him especially when my mind wanders off to how easy it is to lose all of this. how a lot of people take their lives for granted. when there are hundreds of people each day who wish that it wasn’t their time yet they are taken by death anyway.

death. hm. i like to believe that he is some sort of god. that when he walks the earth he knows with each step just how powerful he is. i want to tell him when i meet him that i have gained so much respect for him. that i am not afraid of him. in fact. i feel quite the opposite.

there is a manuscript on my bed and i think to myself, maybe this will be the first one i’ll write in. fuck the belt around my waist, i’ll take it off. fuck the amount of money i have in my bank account. i’m taking my pen and scribbling into the margins: there is so much to live for. there is so much to live. there is so much to life. i will not take this for granted. i will not be afraid.

my pre-writing ritual goes like this always. i sit. either at my desk or on my bed. i cannot write while standing, i wonder if it has something to do with brain to finger waves. i think, i don’t think i’ll ever have the time to look up the science of it. speaking of finger waves, next. i look at my fingers. examine each one to see which is the least bitten. which is the least torn up. i pick my target and i start ripping. skin off skin off skin off skin. everything and anything off. my goal is to get lucky and draw blood. if i am extra lucky there is a lot of it. the more blood i draw the more i am inspired.

after i am done wiping my hands clean i open my laptop and get to typing. like so. before coming here i had drawn blood from ripping skin so deep i had dark red trickling down to my left wrist. i love it. sometimes i wonder why i never question why i was created a masochist.

mirranda. i feel like i tell a lot of people things but only very few people know how softly i am in love with you. and i am tired of keeping that softness unheard of. i am tired of keeping it in the dark. i get 12 visitors a day on average on this wordpress and i want those 12 today to know that i am in love with you. with all that you are. with all that you have grown. from a flower to a whole garden in the span of a year and two months. i’m in love with it all.

there are some days we go where we do not talk at all. we don’t need to. i think, we can go a whole year without talking and that wouldn’t change what i feel for you. it is beyond actions. beyond words. beyond needing to be watered daily. i could lay a 40 mL watering can at your doorstep. wait a whole two years and 33 days. come back and see that it has not been touched. but what we have is still growing. but i’d take that watering can and spread it thinly over us anyway. just for the love of it.

i love you. i think, andrew garfield once told jesse eisenberg, you’re my best friend. come. let’s get married and live in a house together. mirranda. let’s get married and live in a house together. i will not buy you roses. i will buy you a flower shop. and then we can grow more in the backyard. if i were to assign a flower to you. it would be the ipomoea alba. its common name is moonflower. because i know how much you love the moon. now. isn’t that weird. you know i love sunflowers the best. moonflowers sunflowers. you complement me.

you are one of my soulmates. i think, in another world, we might’ve been together. sharing more colors in cars parked in front of hotel tennis courts. saying that we can’t see even though we can see how many fingers the other is holding up from ten feet away. what more of two feet away between seats. dropping love poems off at each others’ works. sitting underneath the stars and talking until the sky starts to pink. holding hands during sad scenes in movies.

in this world we have a connection unlike any other. i think, there are hundreds of thousands of people on this island, and i happen to run into you. we have touched on religion before in our year and two months, so you won’t be surprised when i say that i believe god played a role in this. god, or whatever deity happens to be the controller of the universe, said at one point: i’m going to bring these two together. i think, god. deity. i’ve done a lot of bad things in my 20 years. and i am thrown off whenever something good comes my way. but this by far is something i didn’t think i deserved. my fingers. if they could talk. they’d say. bleeding and torn up and all. that they still don’t understand. but they are eternally grateful.

at this point i don’t care where we end up. at this point. i don’t care. we have a garden and i love walking out at night after throwing wood into the fire to see how much we’ve grown. i adore you. i am not going to apologize for not writing about you on here for those 12 visitors to see every other day. i’m going to apologize that they will never understand what we have. they could never. not our colors. not our poetry. not our hands. those are for only us to hold.

so no. the final say here is. i love you more. i think i always will.

i have read before. countless times. about how there exist kisses that are poison. that once you get kisses like those. poison will spread through your veins like fire. kisses from matthew were like that. they left me feeling like my insides were ashes and dust. like i had burnt myself out because i had not known that his lips were matches.

i did not read. not once. about how there exist words that are poison. i found that out the hard way. when you said

i knew you stopped loving me when you stopped writing about me.

i wondered. what is this feeling. it is not fire but ice. from the center of my heart to the ends of my goddamned fingertips. this. this is a different kind of poison.

i know you have been avoiding my blog because you do not want to accept that i am capable of writing poetry for other people. but if you are reading this i want you to hear me out. i don’t have much time okay. my fingers are going numb from this poison and i am wondering how long it will take for me to find an antidote. i think this will take the time it spent for me to heal from matthew times a thousand. he did not get to ingrain himself in my heart the way you did. you and i. we were years and we are still in the making and he was but a month.

hear me out. i never stopped loving you. i don’t just stop loving people because i don’t think i am capable of that. i am capable of writing poetry for other people but i am not capable of falling out of love with someone who i wrote a book for. there is blood. leaking out of my ears. my nose. the sides of my mouth. the poison it is working and it is numbing me down to the bone.

i love you. i am tired of having to repeat myself for you to get that through your head. there is poison. and it is so fucking cold. it is ice and it is numbing me down to the bone. i am not sure how long it’ll take for me to lose my capability to write but just know that i love you. i always will.

sometimes. when i am in bed. during the quiet hours. you know my quiet hours more than anyone in the world because i used to wake you up so you could spend them with me. even when you were cranky because it was so early. even when we fell asleep just an hour before. i think about you. i think about th


my favorite kiss between us was the last.

see i didn’t even think it would be the last. maybe that’s what makes it so dear to me.

i had just given you the best (the number is our secret) minutes of whatever we had. “that was. the hottest thing i’ve ever seen. you’re crazy. you’re so crazy.” i’m offering to drop you in front of your class. “no,” you’re saying, “i can just walk.” “can you really walk?” “okay, yeah, you can drop me.”

“i’m gonna miss you,” i say. “will i see you before your birthday?”

“yeah, yeah, of course.” you’re getting out of the car now, taking your bag, smirking like a little boy.

“don’t forget this,” i say, giving you your red lunch bag. i smile back at you. “you’re so fucking happy.”

“mm hmm. yeah, kinda really fucking happy right now.” goodbye kiss. “bye.”

i think about your lips often. how they are so full. how i first described them as lips that “made me want to eat after i’ve just eaten.” how they felt pressed against mine the very first time we kissed in front of my car. oh it was a goodbye kiss too. our first and last kisses were goodbye kisses.

i liked your head kisses the most. the side of my head. the top of my head. everything. you whispering that you adored me into my hair. me closing my eyes and leaning into you like summer. it’s cold now and i’m freezing and nobody is here to bring me a jacket. i have to get up and grab one myself.

sometimes when i walk into the library i am overwhelmed by your smell. it’s so weird. sometimes i avoid going into the library so as to avoid these memories. but then i think, no. i don’t want to avoid these memories. i want to bask in them for as long as they are the softest parts of me. right now i am so vulnerable. i feel like i have been stripped of my skin and left raw to walk the earth. even the soles of my shoes feel like they aren’t there.

there is a part of me. i’m not going to say where. but there is a part of me that i can still feel you on. i still feel you there as if you had touched me there yesterday. and god knows it fucking hurts. like i can press on it and there is some sort of bruise. so deep you can’t see the end of it. the worst part is it’s not black or blue it’s the color of my skin and nobody can fucking see it. only you and i both know that it is there because only you and i both have touched it.

i’m not sorry i gave you a second chance. i’m sorry that i’m so open to giving you a third. i don’t know why i spend much of my time late at night before i go to bed wondering if you will text me. i don’t know why when my phone rings the first thing i think of is god, i hope it’s you. i hope it’s you calling to apologize and i hope it’s you calling to be taken back. i’m sorry that you are such a weak spot for me. what is it about you that i like so much. is it your hair because there are other guys with andrew garfield hair. is it your voice because there are other guys with sweeter voices. is it your hands. is it your scooby doo socks. oh fuck. the more i think about it the more i realize you are so fucking.


i don’t know how many times we’ve kissed in that month and a half. but damn. i touch my lips now and i can still feel you on them. i can still read your marks you’ve left on them like braille. you are so goddamned dear to me. i’m sorry that i didn’t make that clear enough. or maybe i made it so clear that you decided to run away. i’m sorry you left. but i’m not going to be sorry for all of my soft. not when it comes to you. i’m not.

happy birthday m, here’s some word vomit

it is thanksgiving and it is your birthday and my room is a fucking mess.

if your room isn’t clean by 5, you’re not coming to thanksgiving dinner, my mom said. i think she was half-joking half-serious. i’m sitting on the edge of my bed texting you some long paragraph about how grateful i am for you and it is 11 am so i have 6 hours left.

what will i do in those 6 hours? stare at the wall and let my mind wander off to its favorite places? have it walk from you to you, take the bus from you to you, ride a bike around the block from you to you? my mind is so comfortable when it is on you. sweet, i think. my mind mirrors my body.

dear matt, i have it think. my heart has these strings and you pull on them daily. it irritates the fuck out of me. i’m not used to having my heartstrings pulled on yet you manage to do them without saying a word. i am 98% water and when you look at me with those stupid big brown doe eyes you make me want to empty myself out. maybe become the reason for the dew on the grass in the morning or the water levels rising. does that make any sense? at this point i don’t care if anything makes sense because it’s all a headfuck. you headfuck me. i’m so fucking whipped dude you’re driving me insane.

dear matt, i think. you are better than all of this. there is a world we are living in and it is slowly being destroyed because of people who don’t think twice about their actions. if it were up to me i would have us move to neptune just because it is my favorite planet. just you and me. i’d build us our own rocket, i’d make us our own space food, i’d write you a thousand letters while on the journey there. come, i want to write, come with me. we will go where nobody has gone before. will we have spacesuits when we get there, you ask? nah. you can be my spacesuit. let us make a statue of us, let us make it so big they can see us from earth. let them think damn, those two. they’re better than all of this.

dear matt, i think. you are to me like cigarettes are to my dad. i told him to quit a long time ago but he refuses to. they have become a part of his daily routine, they have become a part of him. every time he breathes in they are alive and well in his lungs. you are so goddamned addicting. like holy shit i feel like whenever i breathe there is this mess of you in my system and it feels so fucking good. it’s addicting as fuck but i fucking love it. my dad is 71 and he has no sign of lung cancer, don’t worry, we’ve checked again and again, and even doctors are telling us that it seems too good to be true. if that is the case then i’ll keep taking you. even though cigarettes are bad for some people they don’t cause cancer in others.

dear matt, i think. i really have to fucking clean my room. you see, you let my thoughts go off for a good 15 minutes (it’s only 11:15) and you consume all of them. all of this was freewriting, i didn’t edit, didn’t pause, just let them flow. 15 fucking minutes and you’re all i think about. what more if i let myself go on for 6 hours. i end my text to you with a “happy birthday you bitch. you’re my favorite,” and throw my phone under my pillow.

now, i think. i’m hungry. time to put in work.