And then I opened that old pen.
I used it since forever.
Even though the ink smuged all over my fingers.
I still used him.
I put away the cap and placed the tip on the thick rich paper.
The blue ink on the white paper.
Oh bunny.
If only you knew.
What your man does.
To you.
To me.
Who he goes to when he sneaks out, when the clock hits midnight.
People tell their children stories about ghosts, that appear at midnight.
For them to stay inside.
I wish he would listen to his parents.
Now he is the ghost.
The ghost they talk about.
Maybe behind all of these stories, these stories I never believed, is another story.
A sad, personal, cold story.
A story like mine.
Like yours.
I never was good at having to share attention.
Or at least I pretend, to make this sound more sentimental.
But is this supposed to feel okay?
How are you feeling?
You don't even know about your mans late night actions.
I've always loved nights.
The way the dimmed light tints the room.
The way you start being so open about everything.
It feels like something really special.
Now my memory is full of smoke.
Destroyed glass.
Smudged ink.
Xx Alex
YOU ARE READING
letters for bunny.
PoetryBorn to be the other woman. But one day, she opened her book. She started writing. Writing letters to that girl. That girl, her man loves. That girl who wears the ring that is supposed to be on her finger. The girl that shouldn't be betrayed either...
