we're all just a pile of lovely bones. when the strawberry moon rises i'll dedicate my prayers to her; i've always admired her freckles & the way her skin glows, & i've always felt safe enough to tell her my secrets. sometimes at night i write letters to people i haven't spoken to in years then burn them in the morning. it feels like some type of renewal of the self. it can be bittersweet at times, writing love letters to ghosts who'll never read my messy handwriting or notice the tea stains in between each paragraph block. but it's something i've always had to do. it's the only way i can let go.
