Dear Pepita, I’ve stopped writing you love letters in my head. Mostly because this isn’t love. This is being used. So much so that I doubt I’ve ever been used before. I’ve taken back, apologized, and asked for forgiveness from the people I thought had done so before you came strolling so confidently into my life. I have nothing left to say, because if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. Maybe that’s why I have been so quiet. Maybe that’s why I’m allowing you your space. Because the words that form on my tongue are venom, swallowed back down to fester in my stomach and be digested. The acids in my gut breaking down sounds and syllables, letters and feelings too strong to let loose upon the drying summer earth.
Now I understand that my dreams, prophetic as they are, are scrambled warnings. Puzzles building and unraveling in my head like poorly knit socks. Comfortable as they may be, they’re still going to fall apart.