VII

My Dearest M,

I don’t want to be bitter anymore. It has calcified in my arteries. Nothing is soft. I cannot move, consumed by the stones severing my chest. Every breath, searing reminder of all I don’t have. My words catch in my throat, coming out jagged and violent. It isn’t enough to tell you my chest is heavy and bleeding, I will shred and tear until you feel this too. Tenderly tilting you head back while I drip destruction down your throat until it solidifies in you too.

I don’t want to be violent anymore. I will chisel the cement from inside out. Feverishly spitting gravel through gritted teeth. Choking up tonic water and resentment until finally I can breathe. Ribs and lungs expanding in unison. I will burry my atrophied atria and fertilise them with blood and bone until groves of lilac can bloom. Maybe eternal spring blossom will not be so violent.

Yours, Dorothea