This is untitled. This is about letters and war.

 

 

It's September 7th, I'm doing fine.

If you define the word 'fine' it'd include words such as 'anxious', 'tired', and 'confused.' I'm not perfect. I'm not perfect. I'm still breathing, if only barely.

Inhale, Exhale. Repeat.

Exhaustion is evident in my eyes and I'm writing you letters on the back of receipts you'll never read, receipts I keep throwing away covered in messy cursive. Write, crumple, throw away. Again and again and again: it's the 2 am ritual. It's the nights I can't sleep and the nights I dream about bookstores and you and my teeth falling out and empty streets and you.

Inhale, Exhale. Repeat.

The world is at war. 

It's at war with the people who stay up late because they can't sleep with all the thoughts in their head, and the people who just can't seem to make the situation better and end up crying in the shower. The world doesn't want me to write letters, but I don't want to stop. Sometimes I'm a rebel, you know that. I think about war and I think about dreams and I think about you. Then I write. Then I breathe.

Inhale, Exhale. Repeat.

I'm still sane. I'm not perfect, I'm not perfect. But I'm still sane and that's about it. 

Inhale, Exhale. Repeat.

I miss the days of scraped up knees and colored band-aids that matched my overalls. Instead of cleaning up blood with a small washcloth, I'm cleaning up scraps of my heart when it was shattered into a million tiny pieces and scraps of my sanity as it escapes from my head one panic attack at a time. Maybe I'm not sane. 

Inhale, Exhale. Repeat.

It's September 7th, I'm doing fine.


"Fantastic."
 Forever Yours,
 Rachel.