grave letters ✓

16

my sweet margo,

it's been a while since i've written to you and if i'm being brutally blunt, i contemplated on whether i should conduct another strip show off of my skin and cut myself open anew or not.

that picture we took at summer camp in 83' still sits hidden in my medicine cabinet and aside from the somewhat torn edges, it burns up my legs and down my neck every time i blink as though a psychedelic drug that refuses to leave my system. 

you have latched your remains under my ribs and now i wander around with the weight of another being pulling at the feeble strings of my heart. i reckon that's the side effects of bastard children with impressive mental illnesses jumping over broken fences and skipping algebra together.

as these words seep through the wet grounds and to you, know that they're not rolling down my tongue like butter but crawling up my throat with glass shards through the insides of my flesh and bones. and as i inadvertently spit blood on your gravestone, the world watches and cackles.

history relives time and again, yet the townsman refuse to see us as anything more than close friends, besties, roommates, colleagues, anything but lovers.

our beloved black-and-white town hates lovers. 

another bullet to the barrel, they think it would keep me balled up in the corner of my bathroom with a plain cloth pressed against my seventeenth wound this month. oh, my sweet sweet margo! how are they so painfully oblivious?

perhaps ignorance really is bliss(?) but-

i will burn and burn and burn for you till i am no more than chips of bones and dust.

my kaleidoscopic lover! the madly beautiful catastrophe that stitch the seams of my severed soul!

hidden underneath the wet grass and flesh-feasting earthworms, you won't be alone for long- this i promise to you with lethal rafflesias blossoming themselves in my backyard and your lips to god's ears. 

even if i have to bite chunks off of my own lungs and kill myself with my own tongue-

i'll crawl home to you.