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




  1. laurelwolfelives · March 20, 2016

    Beautiful. πŸ™‚

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Eric · March 20, 2016

    I love this, Christina. ❀

    Liked by 1 person

  3. The Adventures of Rosebud · March 20, 2016

    This is heart wrenchingly beautiful. ❀

    Liked by 1 person

  4. vishalbheeroo · March 20, 2016

    It’s a phase in life. It tears the heart but you bring human emotions alive.
    Love and hugs

    Liked by 1 person

  5. prakashag · March 21, 2016


    Liked by 1 person

  6. Fat Bottom Girl · March 23, 2016

    How is it I feel exactly this same way? Even down to the too much wine drinking.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Chrissy · May 31, 2016

    Reblogged this on Christina Strigas .


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