this is a letter from the sticky tape holding up the poster on my wall to the mixer sitting on your kitchen counter.
sometimes, we don’t feel good enough; we aren’t strong enough to keep holding on, even through all the bumps in the road. those lumps in the flour just keep bringing us down, and once the poster i struggle to hold falls once, i’ll never look back.
it’s not a movie poster – that’s a few inches above and to the right of me, and it doesn’t even have an image, honestly. it’s a sentence. “my mother is a fish,” it says, and I remember fishing it out of the depths of your sugar jar, desperately trying to scrounge up enough sugar for this batch of cookies.
And oh how you hide in the nonsense. It doesn’t matter what the sentence it, what the word are, because to you, they don’t exist. There’s no chocolate in the twisty blue of the letter ‘y.’ But it’s blue and you told me you like blue, because there aren’t enough blue foods.
it’s a lack of tension in my shoulders when the poster falls because i can smell the cookies from ten hundred miles away, and sometimes i think it’s the feeling when they plug you in for the first time in weeks. the charge of electricity is like heroin and you’re soaring.
it’s a love letter from goosebumps to chalk dust, because i remember how our skin danced with laughter in the clouds when we clapped erasers after school, because our lives have always been a little too old school.
sometimes, we don’t feel good enough. sometimes, i don’t know if we can be good enough. but we’ll always have the rolling hills in the distance and the electric feel of a book in our hands.
my eyes look strained in pictures, like they fail to hold up some semblance of happiness, and my teacher told me that happiness equals flowers. he said that and we looked at tulips, and i thought of the swing set where you told me you loved me for the first time and we held hands and ran to the twisty slide, blue like my ‘y’ and blue like your chocolate chip cookies, and it was crushing.
crushing in the break of the waves of future transmissions. dead air is terrifying because there’s nothing there. we don’t talk anymore; you’re in the kitchen and i’m falling somewhere else for someone else’s poster. yet, i can still smell the chalky dust and feel the sting bringing tears to my eyes.