To my dearest self

To my dearest self,

I need to focus on myself. Life is whispering to me with her lips brushing against my knee caps and I know it is time. I am housing terra cotta children beneath my skin, in my pores and I scrub and I scrub and I scrub. Do I want less of myself? I am their houser and their supplier and they need me to survive. It feels so good to be needed but we are both desperate for their  leave. The Lowell system of my body is not your happy place. It is not a water slide for pinky toes or the three syllable statement you always wished he said and meant. It's not the promises he told you he would keep or a ballot ticket of someone else's heart with your name scribbled a million times over.

I am the court jester, an egg teetering on the edge of the countertop. I  am words caught between my teeth and teetering on my lips. I am the salty air that darts with seagulls and flirts with dark waves. The waves want to love you so badly that they are willing to let you drown. I am the mermaid and I am the sailor. I get caught in your hair and between rocks and I especially get trapped in the plight of the wind. I desperately want to be caught with myself. No lighted fools dancing on fuels of cruel laughter, no cider press squeezing out some deeper meaning.

I am eyes closed and mouth open. I am dirty fingernails and smooth palms. I am just a voice and then I am nothing. I am just some words and I am everything. I am the smell of worn books and poured cereal. Breakfast is waiting. So am I.

Most Sincerely,

Yourself