To Pluto and Jane and all the rest,
Is it cold where you are? They say you'll be dead soon. Maybe you shouldn't know that, maybe I shouldn't write that. If I put these letters on your grave, they'll put me away, so just... keep being? Shed your mind, shed your soul if you have to. But leave this body here. It's all I have. At night, when the nurses turn off the lights and think I've gone home, I draw on your arms. I know I shouldn't. I know, but they never check. And you never left your arms bare, Jane. They were always covered in glorious art. I'm not an artist like you, but when I see those marks on your skin, I know that I was really here with you. And not anywhere that I didn't want to be.
Signed, Marigold
