Dear John

You know I’m not really bad, but maybe also the baddest, a cancer woman
deep in Venus-prime. I’ve never been one to shy. How can anyone
be bored with so much anger blooming. The slight twinge in the center
of sternum, morning-rise, morning-set. The epistolary of war in our mouths
through coffee and walking around and dinner and sex (not between us,
of course, I have never been less someone’s code of attraction). & don’t mean to do wrong,
but also maybe I do, stuffing sugar in my mouth, stuffing language
where it no longer fits, no longer open to possibility. Yesterday everyone
had to continue living in spite of. I’m thinking of sorrow as my primary partner
these days, to enter into this covenant you have to confer with it. & now I realize
it was my fault in the beginning that you cared for me, but actually who has time
to take on guilt or shame, kick amor fati into another galaxy with my sun moon
and rising, let them deal mafia-style, it’s own blood in blood out situation.
& regret it from the bottom of my heart, where is the bottom of my heart
these days but untouchable, reckoning, the chasm of potential so weak
it barely thumps. Today, our nervous systems remain shot,
another rise to another shitty occasion. But I’m here to stay, at least for now.