Tag Archives: series

Dear R.P.H. (Letter #8)

I’m transcribing a series of handwritten letters I wrote, but never sent. Read the previous letters here.

Dear R-

I just did what I told myself I wouldn’t. I sent you a message. A contrived, fake message. I’m an idiot. I’m sitting here on pins and needles, waiting to see if you’ll respond – how you’ll respond.

I gave up all my hope again today. I needed a ledge to hold on to. I used you. I said out loud in the car, “R- I’m falling. I’m falling again.” I want you to stop me. Please stop me. Please. You’ll ignore me again – or reply in a pithy one word response – and then it’ll be better because I’ll know we’re done for good. You’ll have gone back on your word  – to be better to me. And that’ll be that. And I’ll just go on. I must have written and re-written my little two phrase message.

All useless. I’m holding onto jello for a human connection I can love. God, how dramatic.

Dear R.P.H. (Letter #6)

I’m transcribing a series of handwritten letters I wrote, but never sent. Read the previous letters here.

Dear R-

Maybe if I talked to you, you would be happy to hear from me. You’d be the one to reach out, instead of me. You’d go after me. And I’d feel important. And you’d have great opinions on all these things. And you’d want to hear what I have to say about it.

God, you almost made me feel valuable. Did you know that? That’s what I’ll say when we finally cross paths. I’ll say, “For a second, you made me feel valued.” But never loved. Never safe. No, safety comes from security. It comes from knowing. And I never knew. God, why didn’t you let me. I would’ve loved you if you’d have shown me a sign. Given me something.

Instead I called you out on your passive aggressive dodges and you blew me off. Your apartment looks like a 80s crack den. That was petty. I’m sorry. Not if I hurt your feelings. I’m sorry my feelings for you resulted in pettiness. I am petty. Not pretty. Petty.

Poems from the Week (7/14)

It rained so hard today I wanted to cuddle with strangers.
The sky turned to winter morning’s green.
I hunkered my shoulders.
I wanted someone to notice I wasn’t ok,
And hold me while I curled up in a ball
From the big scary noise.
Desperation bred lovability today.

I woke thinking life had nothing but horrible thoughts for me.
Then I got something done,
Not everything, mind you,
But something.
And I only thought, “I have to get out of here” when I stopped to think.
That must be why busy people never stop to think.
All their little day saddnesses would play catch-up.

Someone’s beautiful place of memory
Got destroyed today.
Those poor red shutters on the old brick house,
And all the overgrown fence posts,
They’ll never be like you remembered them.
You can’t go back to double check yourself.
Did I really feel like that,
When I saw the sights I’d seen a thousand times before
With different, healthy eyes.
I’m so sorry little memories.
I should have written you down to keep you safe.
I should have sketched you in color,
I should have photographed with sound.

I do not want to talk to my old teachers.
I will be reminded of all the things I promised myself to be,
The last time I came across their desks.
Let me stay unjogged, more likely forgotten,
So that I can slip by,
Accountable only to myself today,
Instead of the, look where I’ll be, girl with shorter hair.

Pain pills chill on my desk leftover from surgery.
I don’t take them.
I have to say I can overcome some sort of addiction.
I’ve left them on the desk because they fit in.
Like I’ve left that bird turned just sideways.
I have to be able to do something right.

I want to be noticed, but I can’t say I want to be noticed.
So I have to pretend my below grade flying is destined on purpose.
I could be famous.
If I wanted to be.

It’s true,
You find love together in the moments,
Then the waiting for the next one.
Maybe this next one will be better,
Or maybe he’s forgotten.

I met your father for the first time,
He knew all about me,
Oh god, I’m a topic of conversation around your damn meatloaf.
I thought we thought of each other as friends.
Dammit, why didn’t you tell me, you know I’m blind about things like that.
I never saw you again after you left for school.
You an all curl hair.

My dyslexia kicks in.
I’ll tell you what happens.
I’ll be stressed, I have to say this quickly, and it has to be accurate.
I know exactly the word I want to say,
I try to say the word, but I can tell it’s coming out wrong,
And I can’t fix it.
I know it’s the other thing I want to say, the opposite,
But I can’t figure out how to say it,
And there’s no time,
So I go with what my mouth was trying to say,
And I can’t figure out what I said, or meant to say, except I’m mad at myself.
It happens with words.
It happens when I’m writing down a phone number and can’t figure out if I’m writing down a 6 or a 9, and I know something’s off but I can’t see it. My b and ds looks like butterflies, with bumps on both sides.
It happens when I’m thinking too. I’ll think wrong, but I know what I mean, so that one’s not so bad. When I’m reading the letters will flip flop, the letters and the words, and the lines, sometimes it’ll sound funny, and I can laugh to myself. It gets bad when I’m tired too.

I’ll never be beautiful.
I don’t mind.
It means I don’t have to put on makeup.
And no one lies to me.
They know they can’t tell me I’m the prettiest.
I can be fine with me, and my perfectly normal features.
I’ll draw you a picture of me one day here soon.