Letters Written to be Read Without Me

Letters written to be read without me

Do two things really exist without a third to stick them together'?

Awake for a moment, though compared, feels much longer than the life I've owned.

Hopefully, I come to you when I am. Awake that is.

Across these wooden panels lay death, as if to be offered on a table. Such a feast' as to take life from you in return for being seen.

It began with my head in its lap, black feathered wings blanketing my body.

Black and white I see as eyes struggle to remain living, me in its tiny arms, a pool of whose blood beneath us.

"Look at me."

I feel a thumb drag across my eyes, leaving a trail of blood in place of tears from one who has see them.

Clutching me closer, touching my soul, pulling warmth. Whispering joy through smiling lips to me alone,

"Hello there."

I can remember the first time I was with it. Black and cold, nothing in my ears but pumping blood in the ice.

Afloat in front of me. Thick black hair stretched from her skull like a dandelion mid-wish.

Mirror black linen clutching against skin, Plano, black waterfalls, clasped to body and putting anatomy to shame with its fitting.

The prodigy,

Beauty.

Letting my torso expand to bursting, sucking cold life. I rub my forearms, so sore the action radiates heat and comfort, reasuring my wounds, feeling not unlike someone you trust washing your back.

Clasping my hands behind me, turning them out, and puffing my chest stretching my skeleton.

pretending to stretch my innards out as well knowing that's not how it works.

Dragging fingers tumbling lightly across the wall on my way to the bathroom. Dots of red chalk on a chalkboard. My blood-covered arm and hands in the sink, toothbrush rising up from its resting place and stopping. Laughing at the image of spitting foam into a bloody sink.

How beautiful.

I stumble into the shower to think, turn the dial all the way up to incinerate the addictive self-pity I felt out of my flesh. A visible effort was made to take off and hurl my quite red-stained clothes towards the corner.

Squeaking down the shower wall I laugh.

"

I will not believe in love at first sight. I never will. I believe love is a rose that grows inside me with the passage of time, embedded in flesh. Whomsoever's flesh is so unlucky. Thorns, growing even more painful and a bud that's leaves discarded, flake under my skin as a testament to my commitment, self-aware or not. I don't know where I put my love but I don't have any left. A single white rose bouquet dripping red. Unable to give what itself is."'

I asked for a challenge, I asked for pain, we want what we cannot have, if you take something away from me I want it.

Put me in a coffin,maybe I will want to live.

-Rosier.