Eight’s Actually an Unlucky Number, but They Won’t Tell You That

We are filled with wanting too much--- much more than we could ever attain. And then letdowns, and bad days. “I could never write a book,”--- and certainly not in something as beautiful as that thing you gave me.

Sometime, when everything’s dead and it don’t matter anymore, we’ll look back on it all. How many times we spent just looking at people with balloons, and wanting those damn balloons, and never getting them.

The water isn’t blue--- wasn’t blue--- when we were little and did not comprehend bloody knees, greasy hair, uneven nails and wanting to be pretty. It was just fine--- fine by me--- if you rearranged the furniture. If you vacuumed the floor without telling me.

If
We
Stay
Here,

We
Will
Die.

And now I’ve grown attached to these things and I feel used and heated when you do things without telling me--- why couldn’t you have just told me?! Why?! Submerged ourselves in bathtubs (with too much water) and pretended that everything was right again, and our worries consisted of cutting down trees and burying birds that slammed into our window--- and oh, the guilt! If this window hadn’t been so clean; if only I hadn’t been so blind to sticking my life into someone else’s, like a needle, or the edge of a table around a sharp corner.

I am
So
Sorry
For what I
Did
To you.

You can have blue oceans and balloons. You can have the world, if you want it.
(And marriage--- marriage is a silly concept to have in your mind when burying birds.)