dearest,
shambala.
i have removed all the light bulbs.
illuminated is the place i hate to visit, where the green corduroy carpet veils the past
life: reduced, shoved delicately into a box.
a stolen box, from the closet of a kinsmen.
there are two pictures:
one. we are in a pool, our teeth sinking into the same brownie.
someone took a picture. you were red, i was white. i needn't note the color of the brownie.
our bodies looked bulbous and ethereal under the water. later, someone would steal the picture and give it to another as a gift.
we would then be black and white and impervious to pain.
two. we are at a table. a gaudy, wrought-iron table.
i probably bought the brownie because it was soft and indubitably, i would touch anything that was soft. although i intended to prey upon this decadent creation, our attention was ensnared by the photograph being taken. or at least, yours was.
your ingrained film-conciousness told you to look happy, and you failed to bite down.
you always smile when you shouldn’t. it’s as if you’re only capable of joy, and who am i curse it?
i, however, finish my thought and bite down. hard. that photograph crouches in a landmine of remembrance. i refuse to tread carefully, which explains my missing limbs.
do you remember those times?
for i remember how to bake.
what if i found you in my bed?
i remain,
devotedly yours,
chelsea sexton
CONFESSION
I started this blog when I was 15, and haven't had the heart to delete it, even though most of what is written here is horribly embarrassing. Sometimes I post new things here. Several years or hours have to pass before they become horribly embarrassing as well.