Letter to Herself

It fondles itself in cold crescents baked warm. Rolled loosely with greasy fingers ample for redress. We wore color. Flaunted stern like metal detectors gone off. Triumphant and idle in the same alarm. In patent leather shiny enough to thwart the naive. She stalked. Click by click. A horde of locusts ready to erupt from under her heels.

Perfectly defeated. Austere as her failure demanded. She swam out of the waves of her nightgown to rescue him. As he pretended his drowning. As helpless as a wolf. As tender as a hammer. She wore the role of nail to infinity. Knowing there were limits. Stopwatches calculating her every breath. As her abdomen leaked an empty syrup she could barely differentiate from dying.

Once tidily under the covers she told herself stories. In scratched records. Old turntables struggling to spin. She'd fall asleep to the songs. Smothered in the costumes children assume are their future. In the betrayals that were almost friends.

Writing letters to herself. Unable to translate what it was she had said.