Gold covered locket of fuck ups.
My letter to you is nothing but the alphabet spelled backwards, and turned around clumsily. I like to be truthful about my lies- so my honesty for you is this: Right now I'm thinking about Northwood (or maybe Ridgewood) everything is so confused and blurred. All of the faces are all just a haze; the maze that I fell apart in, I thought once that I would never get out unless I had his kiss on my lips. I re-read the diary entrees, tried to understand my lovesick heart bleeding on the page like poems filled with weak verse and structure to the (twined) point of being pointlessness. My letter to you should begin with the letter A (spelled three times) straight out -or maybe just straight up- and down language that I spoke between the thirty seconds that I was dared to stay silent for.
So I'm thinking now about Kentridge where the walls were brown and pink and my lockers always jammed when I needed to be running to class. Or how I fell asleep on the darkroom floor one night to the lullaby smell of Dextol (the rhythm was Dextol, Stop Bath, Fixer, Rinse, and Wash). I have enough black and white stills of us all to create a map that would lead to the reasoning of teenage tragedies. Did I mention that day yet- that day when it all changed. The cookie crumbled. My metaphorical fingertips ran like Olympian triathlons to the broken record drumming of him (and her) fucking so beautifully that you could call it a crime had it been reported to the police in time. It was July (the shit always happens in the summer) the sun should be banned from all of my seasons, I don't ever want to see it again. I uplifted the blades of grass, yellow from the heat, and watched the curve of his jaw line contract and retract me (I was contracted to him) and A.manda crying behind her black sunglasses. I remember the tears like flesh falling. I must have aged years on that day. When. Perfection. Made. Me. So. Sick. That. I. Threw. Up. On. The. Way. HOME. The walk was so horrible through the woods with the heat and my hair that I had straightened to look more grown up; framing my little girl face.
How I came home and cried tears so silent that children stayed asleep beside me and I held on. I wrote "Unleashed" that night when my eyes were so red that I saw the four walls of my bedroom smaller. Everything was smaller after that. And when he read it two years later, a crumpled stack of words and rhymes with a drawing I had done on the cover he said: "I really like 'Unleashed,' its just so..." He didn't finish, and I didn't say anything.
To start the ending of this letter I will say (finally) that it was about you.
I can't let go. Do you hear me I don't let go! I'm dead with holding onto this but I will never let go! I'll carry it to my tomb like an Egyptian princess. They'll burry it with me to help in my journey to the afterlife. It will be a gift card with a picture of his face on it and I'll hand it to Jesus and say: "You see! Do you see his beauty? Can you see my pain? Can you understand why I did the things that I did at the end? Do you know that I felt no fear when I walked away- even if I still keep it in my heart. Gold covered locket of fuck ups." Call me, Lilac, in a Rose colored world. Call me shame like A.ngela (still pixie thin and frizzy) in her oversized black sweater walking down my street in the rain.
Call me Slut like Carol; she fucked so many boys in high school that they started to throw rocks at her.
Call me on the telephone and let me listen to your rasp. Your gasp. Your lapse of judgment needs no explanation. After all, we we're soul mates once; long ago when we danced in that dark gym to Lenny Kravits-style love songs.
To end this letter I will write each sentence out on parchment and burn the edges with candle wax and fire. I will take the flame and swallow it down, until the burn becomes an ache and then forgetfulness. I'll swallow it again until I learn not to remember.