mirrorsaredoors

write me a letter, not emails or tweets. blue pen scribblings on sheets of paper crisp. in five hundred words, two pages and a half - tell me you thought of me on cigarette breaks. go on foot to a post office, paste the stamp yourself. i shall be clouds away expecting the mail truck. © 28.February.2012 :house:

Mother, I want to come home to see familiar faces and places, wooded trails my bare feet would know by feel, even now. I do not wish to be here so ill prepared, with my sad collection of wares, my teenage son, running from monsters we invited no matter how unknowingly. I've done nothing but that which I thought best though I confess, emotion takes its toll on intelligence for if it didn't, I wouldn't be here pleading with your cold dead bones. I am the mother now- sins committed by my son are sins I also own, and so it goes, and so it goes.