I met you when I needed to know there were nice people in the world,
but before I realized I am not one of them.

-C

revision. hate revisions.

Dear Phillip,


The second-to-last time I saw you, you called me "Judith" and sexually assaulted me in my own bed. But don't worry; I never told anyone. I know how much you wanted my friends to like you.

I've been well. Right now I'm trying to rid myself of my self-injuring tendency to always be moving “faster and faster and farther away”, yet I don't think I've ever been happier than I am now. I live a sort of special, quiet existence as of late. There. Now I've given you kind of an idea. And... what else? I have cherry-red hair and sleep a lot later, if I can. Today I couldn't because I got restless, so I decided I would write to you.

This letter concerns yesterday:

I had a bicycle accident on my way home.  Holes in my clothes, fresh scrapes in my skin under those... And it was raining, so all the mud unloosed, stinging as it went down.  And, regardless of everything else, I still thought about it---

The population of Boulder, Co. is 102,800. I suppose something like this should have been among my expectations when I chose to move here, knowing you made the same decision a whole year and a half ago.

I think up until yesterday you may have been dead. But I saw you and you even look like dirty laundry.

Phillip, was this accidental, or will I be seeing a lot of you?

If you want, when it happens, we can again feel the tiniest moment of utter panic and pretend not to recognize each other. I'm not even going to look up your address and mail this letter, if it makes you feel any better.

Before you left our city of origin, you called me by my full name, and then you called me “whore”. No one ever calls me either, and I've been mulling the truth of these things since.

J.



-C

I liked this better before I expanded it to 250 words.

Dear Phillip,

The second-to-last time I saw you, you called me "Judith" and sexually assaulted me in my own bed.  But don't worry; I never told anyone.  I know how much you wanted my friends to like you.

This letter concerns yesterday.  I crashed my bicycle on my way home thinking about how I'd just seen you. As I achingly stood, the rain washing-the-mud-stinging-the scrapes-through-the-holes-I'd-just-ripped-in-my-skinny-jeans, I still thought about it. The population of Boulder, Co. is 102,800.  I suppose something like this should have been among my expectations when I chose to move here, knowing you made the same decision a whole year and a half ago.

You even look like dirty laundry. I think up until yesterday I thought you were dead. But, no, there you were. In one of my comfortable little places. One of the places I go late in the afternoon, this one a bake shop. I tried not to hurry. I paid for my some-stupid-thing and shoved the change in my pocket. I think it was a cherry turnover, but it got crushed in my backpack anyway.

Before you left our city of origin, you called me a whore and said you wanted nothing more to do with me. So I want to ask. Was this accidental, or will I be seeing a lot of you?

If you want, we can feel the tiniest moment of utter panic and pretend not to recognize each other again. That way, none of this makes any difference.  I'm not even going to look up your address and mail this letter, if it makes you feel better.

J.

-C

Every now and again...

 

I kind of fuck things up.

-C

Intruders

 -C

In case this is illegible:

"It's always that last look---You're trying to say goodbye in the right sort of way, in the manner that seemed owed...  It is always that look---the last one, after you've made the utterance, "Goodbye"---that is the most telling.  You're only trying to sound sincere.  You must sound sincere, but, no matter what, your voice betrays you, even if you're telling the truth.  When you and she both nod, your eyes are black, both of you---no, no, hers are green, I know...  But they are just black and lit in white circles by the streetlamp above---though its color is yellow.  You don't walk away just yet.  You stare, and then you've agreed upon a whole history of yourselves, but as told by an outside illuminator; the street lamp's talking...  And you look away because you feel you should.  And all of this takes place within the span of five seconds.  9/21/10."

Calling Card

-C