To

To the girl who said write soon, so I can write back sooner,

To the girl who whispered every word of my songs as she wrote in a pink notebook.

All the pictures I have taken look the same.

From one horder to the next,

We give each other the things we cannot throw away.

It is no wonder I am bored, I am used to being busy and handsome.

Here I am an unoccupied, ugly girl, dressed in fake pearls and sweat,

Wasting my youth staring out the window at the handle of a kite that is caught on the power lines.

It looks like a little scorpion.

You are no longer my biggest fan.

I am no longer my biggest fan.

Words have found their way up.

Irritable for no reason other than I am incapable of doing too many things.

At times like this, it is best just to go to bed,

At times like this it is best to be around other people, find crowded places.

There is no obligation to talk to strangers, but thoughts dissipate

I am aware that the words I use are too small.

Welcome home?

Fall into bed, sobbing, silent stains.