The Rain On Monday

Written words are the only thing my mind can find ease in.

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58. Letters

Once I wrote you a letter, and it went like this:

            “Times have gotten harder and the deep gashes

            on my skin have gotten worse.  There’s even a

            handmade tattoo spelling out your name on my

            thigh in blood.  Please come back.”

Once, you wrote me a letter, and it went like this:

            “Things will lighten up soon.  Dry the blood and

            the wounds will heal in time.”

Once I wrote you a letter, and what it said was this:

            “The wounds on my heart won’t heal themselves,

            and I’m slowly dying from the inside out.”

Once, you wrote me a letter, and all it said was this:

            “They’ll only get bigger.”

Once I wrote you a letter, stained with my blood, and this is what it said:

            “I’m sorry for all of the blood, the wounds have

            opened and are pouring buckets.  It’s hard to write.

            Remember me, please.”

Once, you wrote me a letter, and I never knew what it had read.

But you’re here next to me now, and you tell me it went like this:

            “Times have gotten harder and they said these

            pills would work.”

Once, we wrote each other letters, but nothing really worked.

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