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A letter from the other side of the world:


The thoughts are automatic and intrusive, invasive, like the coqui frogs that squawked outside my window back home, or the eating disorder compulsions I never told you about. They persist, but they fade into the background of everyday life.


I haven’t watered the bamboo on my windowsill for a while, and it’s starting to wither. Sometimes I think that I should have stolen one of the dogs when I left the south, and then I remember that I’m too selfish to take care of anything beside myself. Even if it’s just a plant.


So whenever I have the urge to extend a helping hand to you, I tell myself: not everyone can be saved.


The female body has a sad sort of versatility. I can’t count the number of times my hips were used as a refuge from the rest of the world. My flesh an easy receptor to aggression with nowhere else to go. The nape of my neck a closet door, the entrance to a hidden world where pain didn’t exist for an hour or two. I am not the only resident of this body. I like it that way. I barely want to be a tenant, much less the landlady. You can have it, if you want.


It has been two weeks since we last spoke, and my sorrow has shifted its musings of I and we into verses of you. But as tempting as it is to drive these nails through my palms, I can’t be your savior unless you want to be saved.


I could have kept you warm at night, except you hate me.


This dance is fun. Do you think this dance is fun? The one where I twirl, you watch, you scream into the void, and I listen to the echoes? I guess it would be nice to have a real conversation again, but I’m a sucker for stoking flames and seeing how close I can get before I catch fire.


Your T-shirt doesn’t smell like you any more, since it’s now a pile of ashes lost to the Brooklyn winds.

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