For 

every stamp I’ve licked and locked on my skin. For every darling I’ve mailed myself to. Rubbing shoulders with birthday cards, tax notices, divorce papers, bank statements. Rumbling down Interstate 75, the mailman hums a lyric about love & somewhere, his wife mouths the chorus over her morning cup of coffee. And I’m sitting in the back of the truck, wondering if you will slice me open with a kitchen knife or tear me apart with your hands, if you’ll hold me up to the sun, read these words in my voice or mouth them on your tongue. It’s been months, dear, and I’m finally starting to understand. All we can do is ask. The space between to & from is the answer. How many times have I lettered myself with cursive this unclean? And of course, you were never the type to attempt deciphering. Still, I keep writing. I have only ever wanted a space on the fridge door. For someone to hoard me like those old photos they cannot recall posing for, hung only to prove they were visible. I was on the road for a long time. I traveled halfway across the world & I am more illegible than I ever was. So how kind, when you’ve arrived at a doorstep and it doesn’t let you in, for the mailman to tuck you back in his pocket, carry you past every stop sign you refused to surrender to. Return to sender. Or 

untuck yourself from 

this envelope & read out your

name from the front.