Sunday Morning Story #2

Story of Letters

At 13, I reached the age of rebellion in a home like a powder keg ready to explode. My father's disposition of rage breathed only violence. Tick tock, tick tock.
So I escaped into words, writing letters to a girl I never intended to send, stories of a wandering life, like a premonition of the one to come/ I would see.

Jessica,
I’m hunted and haunted by the unseen.
Will my words reach you, will you find me?
Winters come; I’m pale and thin.
I shiver on a bed of red dirt and bare earth; from these woods, I must flee, or they’ll bury me…

These letters became reasons to write, an excuse like a key in a lock in a door finally opened to explore, without ever hitting send, or sent, or postage paid and mailed to you.

These letters were found in a pile under my bed, their contents read, judged, burned, and punished.

Soon after the smoke of burned words turned to black ash, I walked in through the door, into my story of letters, and never returned.

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