I’m writing letters to all the things that made me feel numb. Hazel skies splatter across my window and I still hate mornings more than Sundays. I wonder how to undo twisted limbs that clench with every thought. I would unfold them and lay them neatly in order to preserve their worth but nothing works like that. My bones are splintered from carrying- they’re turning numb. If people never bothered you then what would be the point of wanting to be alone? I say this with foolish smiles and think how naivety and solace can mean the same thing. I’m immortal in my own way. There’s something permanent about me and the way my soul digs into pure skin. It feeds off heavy hearts, so shadows leach to me like guilt. I ask them to leave, but I always let them back in. Loneliness is as sad as you make it. I tell myself this until my lips turn numb and I can’t feel anything I say. -AMT