Dear December,
Remember that poem I wrote two something days ago about itches and pathogens and Pokemon cards? Well, I did end up getting sick, and the small mountain of used Kleenex my trash can is accumulating at an alarming speed. Being sick sucks.
As of yesterday, I copied my letters to you and to November onto my Wattpad. The only readers, well, rereaders, have been me. That's okay. My writing is messy and wordy and not for everyone. I love it.
I texted my friend about how I was missing Dakota and how I felt like shit and we talked about cats and I think we're both too awkward to call anymore. I want to hang out with her, but I'm sick and her brother always ends up in tears and I hate giving pep talks because they sound like exasperation and firmness and absolute bullshit. No one is brave anymore. I get anxiety saying hi on the street, how am I supposed to apologize? When my ex best friend moved, I saw her walking home and what broke my heart was that she kept looking back like she expected someone to stop her, say no, stay, don't move to the goddamn Great Lakes, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, and that someone should have been me. I am gutless and indecisive and it will kill me from the inside out.
I have so many regrets and my morals are screwed six ways to Sunday. Tell me, December, are you any better? Tell me you're more than obese hirsute men crawling down chimneys with presents strapped to their backs and hot chocolate and the joke of actually changing for the new year. No? I thought so.
YOU ARE READING
dear december
No FicciónContinued 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'.
