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by Holly Day
Dear (blank),
Here is the place where I didn't want to wake up. Here is the place where we were drunk and you touched me and I didn't go home I stayed I stayed and it seems like years later, I'm hiding in bed pretending to be asleep because you have to wake up first, have to roll over and stare at me, brush the hair out of my face with the tips of your fingers, kiss me, kiss me, make me breakfast, and then I can stretch out onto your side of the bed and smile when you come back into the room and then I can tell myself that this wasn't some big mistake. It's not a mistake.Your breath comes so ragged it sounds like words, sound like go away, don't go away, go away, don't go away. You are too good with words, you are too good at everything, I am warning you now that you are not allowed to be charming, you are not allowed to be sensitive, you are not allowed to break my heart. If I lie here long enough I will not fall in love with you. As long as the first thing you want to do when you wake up is fuck me again, I will not fall in love with you. I can go home now. I can go home now. You have not begun to touch me. I have left so many people that this will be easy.
Holly Day has had poetry and fiction appear in _Pitchfork_, _The Squealer_, and _Insane Ramblings_.
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