I Have Loved the Stars Too Fondly to be Fearful of (Being) the Night

I am tired, dissatisfied and a phenomenally shitty writer.

As is evident by my fantastically rambly opener.

Only Living Ghost to Grace the Hall

Today is my sister's 18th birthday.


I wrote her a long letter, last night. Sort of in-re to a letter she wrote me a few weeks ago. Her's wasn't that long, to be honest, but it was. Illuminating, I suppose, if you'll pardon the Lizzie Bennet reference. She said that I loved her when no one else did. Said that it would've been easier for me to have hated her at certain times.

I hadn't been aware there had been a time when she hadn't been loved.
And now that I know otherwise, I'm sad.

summer.

i. fill your sink with cold water. put on a tank top, or sports bra, or nothing at all. shave your arms. shave all of your arms; the tops and the undersides and the little hairs on your shoulders. marvel at how cool it feels to put shirts on. rub your arms in circles every now and then. smile.

ii. walk to your nearest bookstore. or target. or supermarket. find the book section and make a small stack of the ones you’d like to read. sit down in the aisle and start reading until you’re kicked out or grow tired of it. smile at everyone who stares at you. offer them one of your books.

iii. wake up and decide that today is a day for a pillow fort. do so spontaneously and with no real knowledge of proper pillow-fort assembly. steal all pillows and blankets regardless, and attempt to make one by the kitchen table. sneak in some books, music and snacks. watch netflix until you fall asleep.