[untitled.]

i wrote you a letter four months ago and buried it in the garden behind your house beside our dead rats grave. i thought it would stay there.

i guess you could say that my optimism is fading faster than the illusion of you i held. i’m learning just how much of a monster you’ve turned into. the haze is gone. all i need is another reason to and i’ll dig it up in a dead-set mania. if you just say one more thing that makes me feel like i’m grinding down fragmentized glass between my teeth, like the snapping of bone, like tearing sections in a butterflies right wing. like tying it to a string and seeing if it can still fly.

the two-faced monarch of revulsion has a poster child, look in a mirror at night; it’s you, just the real you. i’m sure you’ll see at some point. you’ll learn a lot staring into the dark in the meantime.

hitting a nerve feels like hitting an artery. hitting bone just feels like punching Louis Comfort Tiffany. take a breath and close your eyes. neck deep is only a frame of mind and it can be broken as easily as a snap of the cervical spine. easy as cutting a string. consider this me cutting mine. no knot you can tie now would ever leash me back to you. the high of escape is the only good thing you could ever give me.

by the time you get the letter, you’ll know it by the last sentence. watch out for the broken bottle in the driveway, and the bones by the back door.

postscriptum: don’t write back.

- f. e. celler

04.02.20