i hate contracts / i think i fucked up

about that letter from Feb 9

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I’m sorry if anything I gave you was tainted with resentment.

Even the slightest hit of that can knock me off this wire. I imagine it’s the same for you.

I sit on a grassy knoll. There are little ants all over the place. They all see me as another stretch of green earth.

I want to lean back and watch the clouds in the blue sky. I want to have a view framed with leaves.

But when I think about getting comfortable I feel uncomfortable. And the ants don’t even bother me anymore.

I’m sorry I couldn’t decode your letters. Irony is when you can’t recognize yourself.

I mean, if you see it from her point of view, she had only looked into mirrors that were warped.

And she covered them one by one with black cloth but only after she believed that she deserved her own light.

I’m writing to the sky now. Dear Sun. Dear Stars. Dear Moon. Have you heard the latest Adele track?

If I hold my arms straight out as I type it’s almost like I’m in the sky because that’s where I want to be.

The grass on this knoll is dry. The individual blades scratch the back of my neck.

Don’t look now – this is a scene in a song.

I’m pretty sure I insulted a rock star once. And I still feel bad about that. I’m sorry. I believe in you now.

If time was linear none of this would be possible, you know. Like how could I even, right?

And sometimes I’m certain that certain tourists sit near me because I look nerdy cool with my plain black journal and my ball point pen. Sitting in a series of cafes alone with myself and my own mud which is the mud of the world.

If there was a way for me to give all of your time back I would. I would give it back like a refund. Not like you enjoyed the organic local brewery product refund. Like that whole consumer satisfaction guarantee refund.

My arms are tired now. I’m sorry that I was so young when we met. I’m sorry i allowed you to watch me cry. I’m sorry if I asked you to hold my hand.

I know you know what it’s like and I blame capitalism. I blame myself. I blame Maslow’s idealistic ideas.

I wish she was here.I wish I could do something more than wish.

I’m sorry. I wish that some miracles looked different. I wish it didn’t have to be so fucking hard.

There are some mornings I wake up catapulting noodle salad into the mouths of baby hawks. One step at a time right?

You need to know that you did everything right. Nothing you did was a wrong decision. And it’s true.

Though I kicked and screamed, if you had been the one to light my path, I would have directed it all toward you.

I’m sorry I pushed you. And how confusing it must have been for me to draw circles of salt around you with my right hand while I was slamming my left into your chest.

If I could do it over again, the only thing I would do differently is this: I would go back to the beginning and tell you everything I know now so you could have my sweater through it all.

Hey, did you check your dresser?

The other day, God put a six month old in front of me. This child was happy as fuck. Staring off into space watching the gentle orbs of magnificent blue and purple and pink.

As I stepped back into those moments of peace in my own childhood, I slagged through the marsh of guilt for not having had the ability to give my own child the pure, perfect, unconditional love of God and the angels from the day she was born.

But you did your best, sweetie. And I know this in my heart. I do.

To understand that fall broke my heart more. And I’m sorry for all the ways I haven’t been there to give you that pure love throughout your life. You know?

All of the elbow macaroni is gone now. I’m not making any for tomorrow.

Even on a warm summer day I want to wear your sweater.

Author: tendrilwise

Hi, I have a diploma in Journalism, I've published a novel, and I am currently studying psychology. My odd way of viewing the world either gets me kicked out of parties or invited to them. Jenn McKay

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