a letter

Dear Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups,

I’ve been wanting to write to you for some time—I know my absence is likely worrying you, but it was too difficult to make contact before now. Every time I think of you, I’m filled with a hauntingly familiar lust that fills my chest and pools in my fingertips. It’s silly, I know—maybe we were more obsessed with one another than “in love,” maybe the relationship was parasitic, as so many people tell me. I credit you with both saving my life and with slowly killing me. Two years ago we were in the exciting and (somewhat) exhausting phase of new love, and I couldn’t get enough of you. I felt to some extent that you reciprocated. Nobody satisfies me quite like you do, still, after all this time. I try to brush thoughts of your comforting presence aside, remembering the tools you used to control me. You were manipulative, paired with the Devil himself, as they say, leading me “carefully down to Hell,” taking my heart with your added sugars and tempting taste of toasted peanuts. The day I decided to leave you left me paralyzed, tucking myself under my bed-quilt, forcing myself to curb my appetite until I finally fell asleep in a state of near-illness. How did I ever let it go so far? But this is turning to emotional assault, see, I never wanted to hurt you, and I still don’t—I admire your perfection, and perhaps it’s too much for my uncontrolled passion to truly receive. Even now, as I write, I realize that I’ll never be truly free of you. I tried to pry myself away from you slowly, tasting, restraining, but it always turned into bags and the bags turned into pounds, and I knew cold-turkey was the only way to truly cut free.

I’m sorry for leaving. Sometimes I still regret it. Sometimes I think I can still taste you…

What it was to be drunkenly controlled by you, putting all my trust and pouring all my emotions into you. I never had a lover so reliable, so fulfilling. My mind in a sugary haze floated above all my hurt and everything seemed like the foam atop a latte for a while,

but I’m here now, and I got here without you. I’m not boasting, only validating my own decisions, knowing that my wounds were only blistering in infection when I was so distracted by you. I can still see the scars, and it’s tempting to come back to you, when everything seems fine, but I’ll try to remember the past.

For now, I send my condolences. Don’t think too hard on me,
Kalli

drifting

Sunlight licked the top of the water, flecks of glittery nothing hovering above the surface. Her eyes caught the flecks one by one, like shouts in her eyes, tearing across her thoughts and interrupting the constant flow for a moment. It was nice, to the interruption—to take a break from everything pouring into her. There were days when she felt mentally constipated; so many problems with no solutions, and she felt like a circus elephant balancing on a colorful ball, trained only on the connection to the ball, unaware of her surroundings and completely aware of herself. Her fingers reached out to touch the still water. It wasn’t much, but it was cool and had a mind of its own, clinging to anything that touched it, hugging her veins. She remembered when she used to hug anything that came near her, begging for attention and recognition, hurting for friendship, never satisfied by what she had. Her breath echoed in her ears, reminding her of the repellent she was wearing, to guard against heartbreak and disappointment. The noise sounded as a reminder of her painful awareness of her own solitude, and at the same time of her stubbornness. In and out, her breath felt alive in her mouth and jumped into her stomach, filling every bit of her, choosing to both fill and expose her emptiness. Help, she wanted to cry, help me, I’m still falling, I’m still broken, but she couldn’t. She was too afraid that someone would hear her.

you surprised or what

I used to write about you all the time.

Every time, in fact. I wrote about you because I wanted you, I needed you. You made me feel like wings (not chicken) and you always gave me a hug whenever I was upset. Somehow, you knew when you looked in my eyes how I was feeling and every time you smiled at me it stung a little bit. Not the kind of painful, overbearing sting you feel when an insect bites you or you have a rash, but the kind like a papercut--distracting, but small enough that nobody else really cares or notices. You had this way with me that made me feel like it was just you and me, and that was it. You looked at me above the crowd of people with your icy eyes and you saw me. And maybe you did this with everyone, I don't know, but you saw me, and you saw what I saw, and you understood like I did. You and me, we had the same filter.

I wonder why I want to talk to you now. After all this time, after all these years, it's still you. You're still the only one who ever knew what to say, the only one who knew when to tell me I was perfect and when to send me cat videos. You were never demeaning or inconsiderate, you never thought I was less. You knew, and I never understood you. I couldn't be what you needed, and I couldn't be quite enough.

I have so many questions for you, and I want to ask them, but I don't know how. How can I ask you what you did when you felt so alone, because it was just you and your head, even when you were swimming in a sea of people? I have so many more--how did you know when it started? How did you feel it the first time? How often was it? Who did you tell?

What did you do when it was too much? When you couldn't be enough? When you knew what you wanted and how to get it, but somehow couldn't take that first step? When you were paralyzed into thinking that you were less and somehow you existed only below? When you were angry? When you were sad? When you wanted to punch a pillow in but didn't have the strength? What about the insomnia? What happened then?

How did  you deal with the pain? You know, the pain that cuts into your heart and sits there, makes a nest, a nest of glass that threatens to cut more whenever you move. How does it feel to take medication? How does it feel to self-medicate? What did you do when you were done, when you wanted it to be over? Did you ever go too far? What about when you had too many thoughts, too many questions, too many dreams, and not enough hope? What about then?

Somehow I know, if I asked, you would answer, and you would call and tell me it's ok, and you would know what to do. You would drive over and you would hold me in your arms, even though it's been years, and you would kiss the top of my head and fill me with warmth. You would know, and I would know that you knew, and we would be you and me together, two broken records that made a pretty cool collection.

I used to write about you all the time.