The wind hits my face,
The trees seem to hold me tight,
The earth begins to inhale,
but where is my guide?

Lying, staring at the stars,
Imagining a brand new world,
to hide in as if all hope is lost.

The earth seems so dead inside.
Who am I supposed to be when no one else knows?
Who am I supposed to follow when the footsteps wash away?
I feel as if I'm living a lie, acting as if I can walk along,
but lying in the mud with broken legs and broken bones,
dying, in the waters that first gave me life.
I feel as if I've died twice.

Every night that I come home, I come home to the same house.
I walk straight to my bedroom
and turn the knob to open the door to a pitch black room.
I put my hand on the switch to turn the light on,
just to turn if off again,
because I know where i'm going.
It seems as if its muscle memory from this point on.
Every step that I take the floor beneath my feet begins to creak,
and I walk closer and closer, passing my bed,
to the desk that stands before me.
I flick on the lamp and grab the chair,
and pull it back as it etches a mark into the hard wood floor,
from every single day and every single moment
through these years that i've pulled this chair out and
sat in this same exact spot.
So I sit.
I sit on the vinyl of the chair and
reach my arm down to grab the splintered wood that lies beneath.
I pull it forward, as close as I can to the desk and
look at this paper, sitting symmetrically on this desk.
I grab the pen as the lamp illuminates the desk,
and the paper, and the pen that I hold in my hand.
I grip the pen tightly and i put the ink onto this paper,
and begin to etch four letters,
four letters that spell out the word "Dear",
because thats all I can write,
thats all i can make it through.
Because every day for years on end i've sat at this desk,
trying to write you another letter,
because you said you would be there for me.
In the beginning, you were there,
you replied to all of my letters in the beginning,
and always told me to hide in my pretend place,
because you said that I couldn't stand tall,
you said that I couldn't stand tall on my own two feet.

but I'm not hiding in these pretend places anymore.

And every single day I come home and I open the door to my bedroom
and walk inside and walk to the same desk.
Every single day I pull it out and etch a mark into the hardwood floor
and pull in the chair after sitting.
I grab the pen and put it, put the ink to the paper and write down "Dear",
because "Dear" is all I can make it through.

Every single day i'm nervous for a reply, because I don't want to hear that I need to hide in these pretend places.
Because I don't.
Because I'm done hiding in these pretend places.
So i'm not hiding in these pretend places anymore.