Receiving A Letter From Myself

Papa told me, ‘Mail for you!’ and I naturally thought of them and wondered which one it was this time and felt guilty for a bit because

I need to write them back.

But the letter was in my own hand, cramped tall letters like a manmade forest of red pines and I gazed at it perplexed for a few seconds

Wondering why it had been returned to me.

Had I forgotten the postage?

But no, it wasn’t the postage, for there it was in faded blue ink like the sky right now, how it’s trying to decide what it means to be seeped in darkness

It was addressed to me.

I ripped it open with force usually reserved for passionate speeches where I feel like I might rip open my chest because it hurts so

And there was my cursive

I stared again.

Then I started to read, and when I was done I was a leaky firehose

All that pressure stored up and only a few drops get loose