LETTERS I DON'T SEND #6
Thank you for unblocking me on the Facebook.
Two and a half seasons (and commercials) of SVU
I’ve binge-Netflix’d since the last word from you
but Stabler isn’t angry-Stabler (yet), and Olivia
is letting her hair get long, not quite full on pony-tail.
Some women on the TV (on the TV) flutter their hands
over various homegoods during a pre-homicide
tupperware party and then this mom (who has
short hair like all the other moms ever to mom)
weeps in front of a portrait of a pretty girl.
No one gets hurt who isn’t pretty, you’d say. It’s how I knew
I was pretty, sclera spangled in bright red,
a whistling sound, like the ocean but dire,
when I tried to pop my eardrums. No pressure,
just a small rush of air. A small amount of pain.
More shock, really, and that tiny explosion
of PSI cupped in the palm, the loss of balance,
and the fear of healing, or healing wrong.
I don’t know if you’ve gotten my messages.
Every time I ask, I lose a bit of the sweet little
with her perfect vision and perfect teeth
and perfect bones. Remember the day
we pretended I made up the whole thing?
Remember when you asked me to go
dancing? Remember when we met my hair
was too short to wear a full on pony-tail.
I still have your sunglasses.
I have yet to have my hearing checked.