my letters extract grief i fabricate and grief that snakes its way to me. they become laden with everything i shed and help me empty myself, so that i can house some space to accept whatever that's destined to come to me. that's what they do, the letters i write, wishing their flavours are taken to the places they're meant to be taken to. (full piece in caption) ___ if only every wind that wafts my hair, takes away the flavours my letters give out every time i crush them, i can touch and take one shard of hope from the shattered pieces that rest near my feet. i write. i seal. i tear. i tear myself until my gut pops out of my body and trembles before my eyes. i slowly examine the labyrinth, that it is. let it be. body needs gut. i need to write letters. never did i bleed to bathe spewed letters in blood. instead, i become intensely aware of the paths my blood takes, to reach my heart from my organs and back to the organs; this happens whenever i sign my name and fold the letter to bag it in an envelope-- as my mind runs out of thoughts to give thought to and incidents to wallow in, it takes turn to concentrate on my body's bloody mystery. breathe in. breathe out. do tears sting? do they burn the surfaces they jog on? they bloat papers. they smudge inks and sometimes mascaras. it's such a dramatic scene-- a strand of hair bearing down the weight of teardrop, until the drop that carries the colour of mascara lands with a thud on the half-written letters and blurs the recently penned down word, along with the writer's vision. blurred vision. goddarn!
