Dear, (Fill In the Blank),

I decided the “check the box that applies to you” on the form, was not for me.

So I’m writing over the boxes.

I filled out my address,

my name,

typed in the codes,

paid the fees,

inked my fingerprints,

gave a blood sample,

accidentally sold my soul- on the internet.

So I think I deserve to write over the boxes, at least just this once.

My reason is this my invisible sir:

I keep getting flack,

and crap,

also pain,

mostly outrage,

at wanting to leave.

To expand my horizons, to try and achieve.

“You are too small”, they say. “So small. All the pain and all the heartache out there,

We can see it pool in your collarbones.

We can see the war and destruction blind your

wide and dilated eyes.

It’s like you have this insane death wish, honey.

Your feathers will be plucked,

leaving you naked.

You will go nowhere but down,

and anywhere but up,

because you are too. Damn. Small.

I can see you behind bars—

Pouring drinks for those who need your smallness to feel bigger.

Swallowed up, followed by an olive.

Blame it on the world my dear and

hold hold hold

on to all that grief. Maybe someday you can sell it in your front yard

along with the muffin tins and your ACDC C.D.’s

Put it next to your son’s comic books and put one of those yellow dots on it.

59 cents.

We can see you board a plane train bus boat

and the whole thing suddenly stopping

in the middle of absolutely nowhere.

We can see you

getting off with nothing but crumpled caramel-wrapper maps,

and now you have nothing.

So. Why risk it? Why leave?”

Who are you, you fortune teller?

I can blast my vulgar hip hop

or my pop punk chchchcherrybomb.

Because maybe I’m worth it.

And maybe leaving is my way of not holding on anymore.

And maybe I like my chipped nail polish,

And maybe I like to bejewel my impaled metal skin.

Or untangle my hair from your bobby pins because they hurt.

And maybe, just maybe, I want to dye it pink-

and let it soak in the sea, and whip it out again

so the sun makes rose crystals of my head.

I know I want my drinks with crushed ice,

and I want to crunch it. Screw the dentist.

Maybe I only want to taste that fire and famine,

not because I want to hurt myself,

but because it’s like a vaccine:

you have to inject and ingest the injustice to fight it.

And being alone isn’t always lonely;

I could use a little solitude.

And I want my clothes absolutely soaked

with gasoline

so I can light a match

and blow it out,

just to prove I can control my destiny.

And what if the storm does end

and the lightning didn’t leave any scars like you said it would.

So I’m taking my umbrella and a red pen:

because I’ll always need something to remind me,

that if I get sick of the rush of pounding rain and harsh words

I can use the sharp end of the sunshade to battle them with.

I won’t cower behind it.

And I’ll need the pen to circle the ads in the paper

that advertise exotic

destinations, and also affordable restaurants.

And I’ll use it to edit the own script of my life,

because I stopped trusting the people who used to do that job a long time ago.

Thanks for the input,

but command delete and clear.

I’m moving on.

Yours cordially,

(Sign Here)