a random thank you letter

Mr. Nelson and Roah,

I'm sorry. There are kids who are standing on the precipice of the end of their story and men being raped thinking they have to keep it hidden because things like that can't happen to real men and hearts breaking without making a sound because no one can hear bleeding and all around the world there are people losing limbs and dying from osteosarcoma. And here I am. Typing this so futilely.

But I had to get the words out soon or they'd never escape. I'm afraid this feeling will run away from me and I won't be able to get it back because no one ever knew it was true. So here's to both of you. Maybe I'm just being an attention whore.

These words are a gin and tonic mix to Mr. Nelson with the bittersweet, moving, scary, heartbreaking, heart-mending, full, genuine words and Roah, with the beautiful eyes and voice and the Apollo inside, but most of all his wonderful lightning enigmatic eccentricity:

I want so badly to a part of it all. Last Friday, I went to Speak for Yourself. I think you were supposed to be there Mr. Nelson; there was a poem about you from Charles Darnell. Leaving early was the hardest part. Everything else was beautiful and it's been too long. The night pulled tightly on my heartstrings while my heart made ugly music and harsh sounds because it just didn't know how to handle the discovery. People are so passionate and torn and brave to go up there and show others their words with voices vulnerable and powerful. I felt like the poets were giving me a peek inside of their soul that I shouldn't have been looking at. But I couldn't bring myself to look away. I've been spending hours between the SFYS blog and Paranoid Breakable and anonymous blogs and my dusty journal and Microsoft word. It's been wonderful; though I've been neglecting my homework terribly. I mean staying up until 2 AM terribly, which I guess isn't too bad because during a rough patch of a few months, I'd stay up until 4 some days, putting every little thing off because I took on too much; thinking I could do it when everyone said I couldn't. And I can't.

I want to go up to Tim and Taylor and Kyle and Soley and Shane and anonymous bloggers and both of you so I can say thank you. Because I've found something I feel infinitely alternating shades about. I found it in every last one of you. And it's been there for years, I was just too blind to see it, especially when I walked past SFYS posters last year, wanting to go live in poetry but never going, somehow never having the goddamn time. Especially when I skimmed over passages and articles without thinking twice about them. Especially when I had the interest to click on poetry videos but ended up not having the patience to finish them. I was so skittery.

I'm guilty of being selfish in wallowing self-pity and for not listening. I'm guilty of a lot of things. Before I graduate, before I die, maybe I'll have the guts to talk to you and say meaningful coherent sentences. Because man, that's a rarity for me. But a coward will say things and never do them and I'm not an interesting one. I've thrown away my chance at passing any AP tests and getting a flimsy paper that says I got straight A's in high school. I let good grades define me and I didn't know what I could be without them, but I've rediscovered something that matters to me. I hope I never lose it. It's reading and writing and listening yet it's not reading and writing and listening because those are just three words. All of it is better than ever before because in the drought I'd forgotten to even think about water. But now I'm in the ocean and water engulfs me. And I hope everyone finds their crashing waves of blue.

I wish I'd taken creative writing Mr. Nelson. I know you're saving a lot of kids from drowning by just knowing they are. And Roah, I wish I could ask you questions, but I'm just counting my stars to having really opened my eyes to words when I did. It's comforting and scary that I haven't even scratched the surface yet. I wish I knew more about visiting Paris and #stolen and letters and Anis and slam poetry. I really wish I had a blog and your prompts Nelson, but it would be so selfish because I'd just want my words to be read by someone and hope that maybe they liked what I wrote. I want to be one of the OTHER WRITERS. Maybe I just need to know half a person is listening. It was definitely selfish that when I got home from SFYS I took my pencil and wrote and thought and wrote and thought, liking the sound of my noise, instead of simply taking in what I'd just experienced. If you've read all the way down this stream of words, I couldn't tell you how much that means and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for taking time away from you, but I guess not enough that it kept me from hitting the send button. I'm sorry for the amount of "buts" and "becauses" and "ands" in this awfully long message that's vague and doesn't make sense. I'm sorry that I made you kind of know a part of me when I'm not worth knowing. People are always saying time must be managed and that it's a valuable thing and heals all wounds and other shitty clichés. I am truly sorry for wasting yours though.

Thank you from here to there and everywhere,

just a girl who loves CD's and has never kissed a boy and listened to "The Dreamer" and "Kitchen Sink"and "Welcome Home, Son" over and over and over while spilling this motley splotchy ink on you.

I'm sorry for making a mess.