Open Letter

An Open Letter to the Noisy Upstairs Housemate

Forgive me if this all seems indirect;
due to the mutual foreignness
and respective meandering qualities
of our native languages (by native
I mean wherever it is you keep your heart,
which in your case I don’t think is too
near your tongue, which could be why
I’m having trouble translating what I feel
when I hear your grumblings and stompings
into what could make sense to your ears),
I thought it would be best to adopt a
wistful and dramatic posture in the following message,
as if I were reciting a soliloquy into thin air
in the way that females have so often been accused of
in their so-called passive aggressive mandealings:

Treating a window view as fiction
only lessens the sweetness of looking out
and letting the seed of that image take root
at first sight, blooming fully only when
one’s words allow facts to be subjective.
Layers of tense glass refract truth
into incoherence, and I am pulled
like a stone on a leash through quartered panes
that could never wish to be broken.
For what purpose does a mirror repeat
what light the skin rejects without judgment,
alarming the mind by its body’s true form
forever hidden to the eye by a reflection,
perpetuating a guessing game made popular
by collective chance misunderstandings?
If only a crystal didn’t separate and isolate
points of light on these colorless walls
and instead could transform
the flow of the attic mathematician’s
steady grind into rhyme, coloring my skull
with melody instead of painting a question mark
on everything I claim to love.
When I am left to sift through the dust
that was once my heart, maybe Mr. Math’s
margin of error will be small enough to
build me a rocket ship sturdy enough
to blast straight through this attic nonsense…

The First Story Inhabitant

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