Letters To The Debutantes (7-9)


Dear Miss Integral Soledad,

Do you think the sky hates water for what it does when it rains? The way it creeps up there and taunts all the way down leaving an aerial field of gray. I suppose it’s nobody’s fault and it wasn’t asked for and it’s there anyway like the anxiety of a stray bird. I keep stopping, I keep trying but I keep stopping, it’s like I’m stepping on dead leaves with the sun so bright and reluctantly awake. I try to think about the buildings we used to grow in my back yard, how they looked so big then. We grew up and the buildings seemed smaller, but only because the world got bigger, someone else had grown bigger buildings in farther places. And it made me scream with confusion mostly, except for the end, my sounds always end with wrath. Sometimes it all works, it really does. I’m sorry, I’m corrupted with the need to convince. Sometimes it all works, and the sidewalk trembles as I run after a soft touch. And the trees in tune, rush to the sky as I find myself quiet and close. And now I stop, but I’ll keep trying. It’ll work, can you believe this whole place used to be a song?

Keep the flowers hungry and godspeed.



Dear Miss Translucent Promesa,

Have you ever had your gaze broken? The captain has gotten around to calling me out on my persistence, he insists my correspondence will go unheeded, I only agree at night when the cats strut along the walls and curl along all the indignity they can find. He figures there was a promise, or an understanding, a formal agreement even. He thinks a reply comes in the same form of the correspondence, I don’t blame him, we all arrive even and want to stay that way. I have told him, What do you think our fields send back to the sun for the energy it sends? The general sent us here, what should this foreign land send back? Two way streets and roundabouts, if only. Anyway, my gaze was broken recently. Why couldn’t you be there?

Keep nursing stained glass and godspeed.



Dear Miss Whiskey Tragedia,

I have avalanched through the last few weeks. Sure, it’s impressive, in so many ways, none complementary. Looking up cracks my neck now, the air got so heavy with the suspense of the constellations. I’ve retained my speed but it’s somehow more brutal and unforgiving, I do not glide like I used to. The wind now wraps around me, only to remind me of my lacking. I seem to have misplaced myself, or at least my aptitude for a decent joke, it feels like I’m at half personality. I don’t imagine I sound sane, the waves of the high tide have told me that much. But despite the insults, I go to them for their orchestral sonnets, that’s how you put sea foam to good use. And the seagulls help, they lack all shame to fly and still walk about like fools, I once insisted as quietly as they do. I don’t know where this was headed, but it seems we’ve arrived per usual. I’ll write again as soon as I can.

Keep downgrading scenery and godspeed.


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