Dear December,
I felt so cold and ageless and wasted today. It drizzled a sloppy rain all day and the floors were wet and there was thievery and I could have paid attention if it weren't so damn hard to keep my eyes open. Finally, break, at last, and I'm shivering in my skin and getting even less sleep.
I'm sick again. Third time this year? I'm too comfortable around my friends, we're trading pathogens like Pokemon cards.
December, I told November about it, maybe you heard? My friend, the saxophone player, the one that left and moved and I haven't seen him since? Our--just mine, now that I think about it--music teacher sent him a letter and he phoned her and he's in heaven in a huge ass school with four bands and first chair symphony and second chair jazz band and I want to be happy, but all I can feel is jealousy. God, it hurts so, so much. I want that opportunity and he has it and he's three hours away and he hasn't called and I feel so replaceable and almost like our adventures never mattered to him.
It's not love. Not in that way. I miss him, in equal parts jealousy and wishing he were here, no, wishing I was there, playing all day and meeting new people and not in this boring town where everything is the same.
I can't wait to get out of here, but everything is taking so long. I'm screaming, hurry up, hurry up, hurry up, but all around me people are saying I am going too fast. I'm going too fast but I can never seem to catch up with my dreams.
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'.
