I want to remember that the first night I didn’t feel like I was killing myself by picturing my looped demise on a  flatscreen in the afterlife of my bedroom in Chicago was the night I drank cheap white wine, and Kelsey told me about Potty Mouth girls, and we laughed at boys who don’t try hard enough, and I wrote something for Patrick and for Jessica, but mostly for myself so I could have my own love letter that I forgot to put down since last October, so there it is in permanence of pen/pencil/paper/keys/memory. Someday I will be thirty and read this poem and wonder what did it, and I will know it was this heart all along.

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