i sit down on my floor to write this letter
to you,
legs crossed like a little girl
writing to santa,
a widow praying to God, crying for
a lost soul in a white dress,
begging, 

my pen flows red
glitter on my dreams,
pages and pages of blood-ink,
they capture my thoughts 
so stunningly,

now i am squeamish,
daisies in my mind screaming
‘she is the difference,’

my mother knocks,
gentle hollowness on my desk, 
she wants to know why i am on the floor
cross-legged like
a little girl,

i ask her to go,
please,

my light room darkens,
hours of writing, dreaming,
my words are like a dam,
i am not the builder 
but the girl watching,
writing to you,

even when i am not,
i think of doing so,
throwing letters in the flames,
will you receive them? 

now, as you sleep,
i pace up and down aimlessly
have you read them
words engraved in your soul
as you are in mine?

i pick petals off of daisies 
as i walk to school,
i don’t get answers, just cries
i hurt the flowers and they bring me
nothing

i imagine you have read it now,
i think of you as i pile the thorns
of broken roses 
on my hollow desk 

when i see you,
i am unsure of what to say,
you want to know why i am dancing
and smiling 
like a little girl 

i ask you to stay,
please.