Letters to Maria Coryaté: Part VI. [postmark: February 12th, 2015]



Hey.  Wanna know how my dark, long, slow night of the heartbreak went. 

Cold stars. 

Take ‘um to the McChord Museum, if there’s not enough Art with a capital a in your life, other than from me.

Listen, I care for you crazily.  And now, you’re safe in a relationship.  That’s what I think I think I want, you safe in a relationship.  But listen, girl, sometimes, when you’re enduring intensive therapy, sometimes you ditch on those commitments when that’s over.

I gotta something that I hope will help you hope some; babe, I’m done with intensive therapy.  Girl, intensive therapy is the toughest dealie I’ve ever gone through.  You pin down the ouchy bits and rub emotional salt on them till they turn into calluses.  That’s what I like to call, not-doing-that-again tough.

A lotta things will never get better.  You’ll never be the same after what the ugly boy tried to do to you— and you know what I mean by ugly.  My genetic inheritance will never change, never.  I’ll be dealing with this stuff the rest of my life.  But some stuffs do get better, and once you’ve ripped open those scabs, deep in therapy, the sores do cleanse.  That’s when you take less of it.  And then, they do heal.  Not fully, never fully, but they form scar-tissue and don’t hurt much anymore.

I care for you crazily.  And I don’t want to let go of you.  I’ve done some tough stuff in my life— running from cops, digging ditches for the construction group, finishing my BA as a 25-year-old— but letting go of you, after where we met, knowing what we could be, letting go now would be too tough for me.  But if you want me to, really, you just gotta tell me.  OK, babe?

February is the toughest month for me.  Now that you’re talking to me, again— it was almost three months, Maria— I hope you’ll Keep talking me: just a random text, sometime.  That would totally make my day: to answer my headset and be talking to Maria without knowing it.

Would you read them if I wrote you more letters?  Burn ‘um if you wish, cause I’m warning you, they’re gonna be love-letters.  But please read them twice.  And twice in a-row doesn’t count.  I know I want to think about what we think we want.  Be talkin’ to you, babe.  Plenty of that goin’ on.






more Letters to Maria Coryaté

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