Dear December,
I don't want to write about myself today. It's bringing me down, somehow I make everything sound sad and melancholy, even when it's fantastic. Here's a poem that I'm making up on the spot, and that'll be half ridiculous and half metaphor and spilling over the top with /what?/.
it's flooding through your veins
the sky opens up and pours down heavy rain
i don't know how to start
i don't know when to stop
it's threading bone and bone
and tearing me apart
no, that's not what i mean
i don't want to make you out
as some kind of sort of fiend
you're my blood and bitter bone
hard and cold as stone
grinning ear to ear because you know i am your home
bit by bit I'm getting cold from your touch
i don't know what i'm thinking
maybe it is too much
i'm making words and holding stories
in my throat like morning glories
they're going off like rocket ships
and i know i am going to miss
their bright and brash electric gaze
i know i'll never escape this dreadful, dreadful maze
/// and crap, I did it again. Am I ever going to make my writing sound happy and not like a nightmare? I don't know where that poem came from or what it's about. I'll figure out how I felt later.
Esther
YOU ARE READING
dear december
Non-FictionContinued from last month's Dear November letters. A little less angsty, a little more poetic. Originally done on Polyvore, by @writingtips' and @smileylina 's suggestion, who got the idea from Youtuber Carrie Fletcher's series 'Letters to Autumn'.
