The Marion Confidant Had Mass Hysteria, Leaving Trees in Her Wake
- by Craig Turnwall

I’m sorry I haven’t called and I’m a clutch. I think about calling and I stall and leave myself to spin relentlessly, I sorry I haven’t picked up the phone…I’m not sure I know how.
This letter equals the phone conversation I wanted to have with you seventy three seconds ago, and then hung up the receiver…because I chickened out and thought that writing a one sided conversation would suite my own needs better…I’ve become selfish…I am scared of things I cannot consume without looking into eyes. I am a monster of myself.
      Please forgive me in this letter.
      I think about these two things relentlessly: time…and equilibrium.
      I possess neither.
      I miss you.

      I called my sister tonight and scared her over phone asking questions obscene to be handled…if you ask, she held back all her tears until I left and redialed….and answered.

      I AM a IMAGICON!
      Nothing exists…if it did I would quake it…for I wouldn’t be there

      It’s harder to not call you Mary, I have lost all the poetry.

      I AM a MOSACIC MISSILE

      Control is = barrier

      Called me three times and I can’t relive tenure,

      I site all is well. Claim it.

      Leave my river, wash and be gone.

      Oh Mary, it’s dance…metal be thy feet

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