I am writing to you to ask what love is. I know it's been years since I’ve written to you, I know my hands now shake with every word that I write. I know my fingers are now withered and my bones are now frail. I’m sorry it’s been so long. I’m sorry my words are likely hard to read. I’m sorry the ink on this paper is probably smudged.
This afternoon, I cut my hand while slicing an orange. The citrus found its way into my veins. The blood and the juice created a river of sticky crimson across my palm; a chasm of my being. I thought of you, scolding me for always being so careless when I cooked. I thought of you, when you slipped while standing on a rock overlooking the valley near my grandparent's house. I thought of your split lip, and how I used my thumb to wipe up the blood. I thought of how I licked it off, and of how you laughed, tears still in your eyes. Do you remember that summer? Do you remember Sunday morning church? How the pews creaked when we sat down, and the entire place smelt like smoke? How we would race each other back to my family's car, feet pounding hard on the gravel. One day, you ran so fast that you burned holes into the bottom of your shoes. Do you remember the bandages that the priest had to wrap around the soles of your feet? Do you remember when my brothers were chasing you across the lawn? The air smelt like salt and fish, droplets of dew clung to the grass; so peaceful, until you rained upon it. Ruination, taking the form of sullen words and sharp elbows. Do you remember when we found that silvery-blue bug on the side of your boat? How the sun caught on its wings, and the reflection burned my eyes. Yet, I couldn’t look away. Do you remember how we killed it? How we killed it, just because we didn’t know what it was? Do you remember when we were in science class, and our teacher asked us what we were made of? I spoke of bones and flesh, and of sinewy fibres stretched between. You spoke of comets and stones, and truths not spoken.
You always had such a way with words; much better at putting pen to paper than I could ever hope to be. I bet your hands are still steady. I bet your skin is still soft. I bet your bones are still strong. I bet that your eyes still contain the weight of comets, and stones, and truths unspoken. You’ve always had words painted on your lungs; mine were always filled with smoke. I know you read a lot, but maybe you won’t know this quote: “The first time a woman bleeds, it comes from biting her tongue.” I can see it now. Red as communion wine, and hot. I can see it dripping from my mouth; the droplets on the pavement below us like paint splattered on a lily-white canvas. I can see my chipped nail polish and smudged eyeliner, and your hair falling into your eyes. I have become carnage, but I am sick of the bloodshed.
You know I’m stubborn. So, I won’t beg you to return my letter. I won’t tell you how much I miss you, or how witnessing the changing of the seasons feels bittersweet in your absence. I won’t threaten you. I won't cry. I won’t drench this paper with my perfume, or kiss the wax seal on the envelope. I won’t hold onto any hope. I will just ask, as best I can, what is love?
I am sick of wondering,
The one who has more questions than answers
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