I haven't written in a while. I wrote once to a boy, that my wish was for him to lay out dead leaves on the sidewalks so I could hear the sound of them break under my feet where I walked. Today, I am in a different place, it's colder here, and the wind does His work for me. The wind loves me more than anyone else does– ever will. Maybe that’s the nature of a girl, or maybe just the nature of me. Maybe when the wind knows a girl cannot bear to live any longer, He lays down orange leaves for her to crunch, and he bites her face and blushes her cheeks. I’d like to fuck the wind. Because He’ll know my skin is bare and fat. Ripe, bound to fall. Like a fig borne basked by the blue and inside the belly of the beast, breaking at the seams, and full of verve. 

I am happy. I cannot elaborate on the former. I am loved, and I am in a beautiful place. I kill myself in small ways every day. I’m afraid of writing happy things because I’m scared I’d be lying if I elaborated on the extent of my joy. If I told you that I slept in a bed with blue blankets by my brothers side like we did when we were small and how it made me smile so big as I was falling asleep. I’m scared to tell you that I finished reading my book the other day and I’m proud of myself for that. The thought of something happy makes me feel awful. Makes me feel like a big fat liar.