dear oppenheimer,
I’ve got pictures of my insides in my bag and still I believe in nothing, or rather, I don’t believe in anything. let’s go bowling.

dear robert,
it’s saturday and the world moves up and down the lines but it’s sneaky, it’s sand in the southwest and wonder, did you ever really know how to feel sad before that moment. do you keep losing all the things you never did just then.

dear oppie,
you could still count all the tests ever taken on your fingers. you could find the sunshine underground. you could sing another hymn. you could open up the air in a way no one ever considered. asking, what did you let in. oh what did you let in.

dear red skin swelling,
underneath the dew is earth, air, water before water, half persons, former sermons, the belief in beautifuls.

dear suicide,
well, I know.

dear doctor,
put yourself a distance, use training, describe loneliness in factors or fractions, dark eyebrows on the right face, bowel movements. face yourself, sleep three in thirty hours, take sandwich bite as a decrease in the volume. stick out your tongue and say ahhhhhhhh.

dear solid disintegrating,
believe and others like you will believe, a swell in anything gathered, complete and completing, come together, right now, over me. how else to explain ripping, or the way you can fit your hand into certain space only to find it stuck. and still, always the qualifier, the world still, according to plan, or all you really are, choice and your mother hugging you before sending you down the path we call this time, but just another and most woman’s chests are a comparison of softness to you, light from miles away followed by a determined dust dressed up as a hex. a good time, and the direction you, the big you, were going to.