The Letter

The letter I find on my hotel bedside table, after waking up by sunrise for the first time in six months, Somewhere, there is a museum of unfinished surgeries where You can reach inside the exhibits and finally touch everything You've been holding onto since birth. In the end, there is a one hundred percent chance that one of Your own organ s will kill You, So stop looking over Your shoulder. Stop acting as if You've been thrown into someone else's life & are waiting to be returned to Your own. This is Your life. You are not a library book, that You may have many homes. You are more permanent than that. More cool than a cement handprint. More favorite than shirt hanging in the closet for the next owner to love. Also, You are the sketch on the basement wall that still speaks long after the house has crumbled. Stop calling Yourself a student, when all those nights all You've been studying is the geography of some other person's hell. Those nights You've spent playing hide and seek with language and the words were starting to win. Those nights, when You were only the axel of a film reel. Those nights, when Your mind was too tired so You started praying with Your fist instead Those nights, when it had been so long since anything had changed for the better in Your life that You actually started to believe that nothing else in this world could be life changing. The night, when You lost Your best friend. The night, when You stopped poisoning Yourself with the things others say "He's to weak to try". & on the midnight television, Gunman is holding a human shield. & they will tell You, He is a coward for this. They will tell You, that he is inhuman to hold another's life for his own. &he holds her The same way that he would hold his lover. The only barrier against everything else. His arms so thick, that they can stop the bullets. The sirens are singing &he is terrified of letting go. & they will tell You, That this Is nothing like love. & they will tell You that You're either too young, too old Or too naive to understand & they will tell You, that love has nothing to do with either music or poetry regardless of the words that firework Your brain just from waking up beside her. That every song You loved on repeat in highschool was just a mass marketing scheme working it's way into the brains of twenty million kids like You. & when You hear this, You will avoid those songs for years but MY GOD When You put those headphones back on You will hear not just the song but every time You've listened to it before like Your memory is a circus safety net You can patch it even when You are falling Your arms, are wide enough to catch Yourself in. &It will be easy to let go of the hate. It will be easy to say that You wrote this. To hear every word in someone else's voice, "You wrote this." Even when the pens, & the power runs dry, "You wrote this" "It is Yours."