Dear Benedict

letter: t w e n t y - s e v e n

dear benedict,

it's barely fifty degrees in my room right now, but even as the cold bites into my fingers, i can't help but feel warm.

maybe it's all the hatred and hurt and anger boiling up inside of me that is giving me a false sense of comfort.

it's a shame we turned out this way, isn't it? i think we could've had a special kind of friendship.

and even as the mixture of hot and cold is invading my body, i continue to drag this silly pen across this silly paper that will inevitably be another worthless, silly letter.

my whole life is silly, benedict. except not the good kind of silly. 

it's the kind of silly that scares people away.

and even as i'm staring hard at the lightbulb in my lamp and frequently taking sips from the fresh cup of tea beside me, i can't help it when a few tears escape.

and even as i squeeze my eyes shut to keep the dam from bursting, it finally does, and then my tears are falling freely.

falling freely onto this silly letter and smearing the silly ink. 

maybe you won't be able to read these words, benedict, but maybe the smudged ink will speak even louder than my voice ever could.

maybe the smudged ink will show you that i need someone to comfort me.

or maybe it won't.

because no one ever comes to a silly girl's rescue.

signed,

a silly mistake of a girl