Dear June
When June falls down around your sunken shoulder blades, you find yourself asking the questions you already know the answers to.
Wash the abandonment from your hair.
Grab fistfuls of language you can not understand, just to take something, away from someone else.
Wrap your tongue around any boy’s teeth who remembers your name, it doesn’t matter if he remembers the way your mouth curls into twisting blankness while you sleep.
It doesn’t matter if his mouth tastes like yours or not, he’s here, and that’s something you will never be.
Grab fistfuls of silence–
Steal the words that they have not given to you.
Steal the sound they have not felt you were worthy of feeling tremble out of their of sleepy mouths;
Take it away from them.
It’s one less thing they have that you don’t.
When June whispers in your ear, don’t listen to her.
She will tell you to keep walking,
But she will force her heavy winds down across your feet,
She will pretend you matter.
It is June, and I am trying desperately to find the one I lost in May’s hurricane embrace.
Maybe she is the same one who is searching for her.
Till then she continues to whistle through the earths empty. As does the wind run through her cavity bones.
One day the same wind will find her. One day the same wind will make her whole again.
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