Thoughts,

I am in love with this heat. This sickly sweet, syrupy heat that drips from my ankles and earlobes and encrusts me in honey-colored sap. Even yesterday, in a wasteland of blue searing doors and dirty pavement, windblown walls. I keep thinking how nice it would be to be a caterpillar and wrap myself in gossamer, dangling from white bark branches, hibernating through the winter in my warm little cocoon. I am eagerly waiting for autumn, but I could do without the snowflake infested winter. I had a dream that I had shark skin. Smooth, grey skin that was sleek and shone like silver rings in the sunlight. I loved it, strangely. My pores felt so encased, but it was a change of feeling. I think I loved that more than anything. Feeling out of my own skin. There's a little hole in the wall next to my home on the love seat. From my peripheral vision, I always think it's a little black eight-legged creature. But I know that it's just a hole. I still catch myself glancing over every so often to make sure that it hasn't moved. Silly, isn't it? 

I asked someone how they healed. So quickly! it seemed. She told me that she didn't, not fully. Still healing, she said. I am still healing, too. I think I will be healing from this for a very long time. My mind often wanders. To what you may have cursed, the shade of red you may have turned, the amount of sweat that fell across your upper lip. When I detailed abuses in my cryptic tomb. I imagine your green eyes lapping up the novelties, searching for your name. A mention. I often wonder if you were more upset that you didn't fill the pages like you dominate emotions, and the swollen sun. Did you read me, to see how I was doing? Or to see how I was doing, without you? You could have just called, and saved yourself the effort of reading all the archives.