letter to myself on a saturday morning

Maybe you should show up — watermelon breath
washed hair and all. Maybe you should show up 
in your dress that everyone knows. Maybe you should
sway like you know how to leave but you don’t. We
could always light tiny objects on fire — a bill from
the ATM, a earring, a reason to stay. Move the mirror
to the floor and meet it cross-legged. Do you leave
more than you stay? We bring the bathtub water to
a boil, we read their letters but we don’t reply, we
slice celery into translucent slivers, we know the words
but we can’t piece them into notes on the fridge anymore.



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