I was lucky to be born in this body, mind in tact. My chest aches. I wrote this letter to a love of mine, that's why. Her name was Winter, my god, her name was Winter. She even looked like winter, ice and snow, white and cold. Winter.

Winter, love, have you ever been enraged? I know that you know that you are the cause of this fire, this anger. It is glowing now, I can feel it expand and suspend. Deeply. It is always deeply. Boiling and filling up the gaps of feeling in the pits of my stomach, in the childhood left in my complexion. Birds scatter their seeds in my hair. A blue jay actually just fed the ginger roots of my head, they are watching out for the nourishment, my nourishment. My well being. Winter! Let the birds feed my hair, don't bat them away! Crazy girl.

Winter, darling, have you felt this cold? Is this what all your unpromising years have lead up to? A wide-eyed, sick, young trophy and two pairs of ripped thrift store jeans? Winter, winter. Right now, all of this emotion inside of me, all this built up depression and anger. I am begging you to feel it. Copy it. Become it. Grip it tight and don't let it go, if we were going to get married, Winter, you at least have to have some sort of understanding of me. I need you to, it's what I need in order to let you go. I am the giver, now I let you gather blue. Hold my hand, tight, and tremble, crumble. Keep forcing yourself back up, keep forcing yourself to run. Let your knees give out on the pavement, but just keep running, keep moving. Christ, winter! Crawl if you have to! Escape, escape through crawling. And choke back any need to speak. Us crawlers, we don't speak. Get lost. In your head. Escape.

Winter, can you see this? Picture this? This is my love letter to you, this is the exact reaction to all of your lies I am having. Exactly. There are millions of people and cars roaring by and I am numb to the sound. Paint that picture in oil colors, I'll give you directions for the water later. I just need to tell you a story. I'll show you my own pictures later, but for now, keep painting your own. In oil. I don't want to lose them.

Once I left Missouri, I packed all of bags and stood in front of the bus stop for three hours. I loaded all of my things on and watched all the people I loved staring back at me, waving. Smiling. While my heart was falling into a dangerously low rhythm they all laughed and cheered at my departure.

"Goodbye, Jack! Best of luck! We know you'll do great!"

And in my mind all I could think was, 'But i love you guys, I mean, I've spent my whole life here.' And there wasn't one, 'I love you,' not one, 'I miss you.' So I left, I almost committed suicide on my way to Boston, but I made it. The heavy rhythm of traffic was comforting. Now, I just want it to hit me.

Winter. Warm up. I mean, it's summertime now. Put some passion into it. If you're not going to love me, hate me. If you're not going to care about me, hurt me. Don't go in between, one or the other. One or the other winter. Before it turns to winter, and you're trapped in this cold forever.