Letter to Myself

I am holding on to what you do not have

to give me. I am drinking too much wine,

chatting up with strangers more than

real friends. Seems no one can read

through lines as clearly as I can. I think

all that cheesecake last night

went straight to my belly fat.

I touched all the words with

a gentle breeze that blew my

mind straight out of reality.

Who needs reality when I have

my own? I suppose this letter

will change every day with

every sunset and sunrise.

Although I am not clinically

depressed or diagnosed

with any mental illness,

and although the voices

in my head are just part

of Florence’s imagination

all this means that I feel

I could fall apart in front

of a bank teller or in the

middle of last night’s dinner

where I have to

tell people to stop reading

my soul, it is not mine,

it is not my choir,

it is how you interpret the words.

No, I am not dying from cancer.

Yes, I am happy.

Who knows the truth,

not even the poet.

Tomorrow’s letter will be

more hopeful.

I promise.

I hid under the earth in

the forest for a while

and snapped bubble gum

at teachers.

And now I am writing letters

to my dead father and

loving mother.

 

Best regards,

Christina Strigas

 

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