Note To Self Ii

dear self, though i have written to you before regarding the stretching of your arm so far, wide & high up in the air, that the ceiling fan chops at me (fingers on your right hand), this time i’m writing on behalf of your left hand, whose hairs that line the wrist were savagely singed only a few minutes ago, when your stupid ass reached too lowly over a burning candle to get something. please remember the smell of the burning hair (akin to burnt popcorn) & think about how lucky you were, idiot, to burn only the hair & not your skin. sincerely, the fingers on your right hand