16, Bitter Sweet

Love. A rush hour. There’s a line out the door. Crowds of emotions. A flock of penguins. 

There’s a melting pot bubbling in the back along with water overflowing by a broken faucet. 

From when I was sixteen to nineteen consolidating and dyadic bonds were made. He was screwed, bolted, and fingerprinted near my ribs. There’s an itching madness to this. A snowflake effect on the tongue when you’re in it, and a burn on the lip when it runs hot. 

Change is happening and I miss my friends. The world is on fire and I cry for all of them. 

I carry fear in my chest and doubt through my multiple-colored fingernails. These blueprints of my past bleed. They’re more blue than cherry red. 

You show up on my driveway and I slam my car door. I walk to my porch and you call out my name. You’re a shadow. It’s raining. The air is too wet and I’m reminded of my college decisions all over again. 

I scream to you saying, “Go back to your apartment–in the city that you're in–to the girl that now serves you glass.” 

I look you in the eyes admitting that you truthfully made me very sad. You hand me the roses that you had under the bed and I bite the thorned flowers leaving them outside–parched and dead. 

Our story is over, this is my cross. I’m not waiting around, and you’re not Lazarus–for you have no business crawling back into my head. 

2 books–everything I wanted, all the things I never said, it’s partially my fault, but I chose my life instead.

Book 5 is on the way, and I’ll tell you now, admit more than ever that there’s no longer any room for you to stay. 

Take your keys and the Blue Nile and please stay forever far away. 

Because somewhere, somewhen I started feeling like myself, and things are okay.

This is officially over. My last letter. Sending you a black-ashed kiss, and I really hope you still have that 60-dollar sweater.

Xo,

Nat