b o r d e r l i n e

it’s seeing someone’s figure

in your 2-day old


driving out to anywhere remote,

screaming into the sky-high eardrums

about the things you already wrote about.

pieces of you know

that without them,

you can survive.

yet not nearly as satisfying.


how some letters

are better written

in red,

and sealed with collected tears,

instead of saliva.

like all the times

you break open each envelope,

just so

you don’t have to realize

you don’t know their address.

that these drastic

means of delivery

involve more pinky promises

you cannot keep.


that you have merged,

become one,

with these four walls

and bed sheets.

so much so,

you forget

that they don’t

have to

love you back.

that to them,

you are not vital,

nor necessary,

and not worthy.

– l.h.

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