A blog and burrow by Nicole Buzzelli
Shapeless
The more lines I draw, the less shape I got. But I guess, the more shape too.
DEAR—
This is a love letter to myself, but I'm hoping that if I do it well, it will also be to everything. There is a flower that has bloomed inside my chest. It is not blooming; it has bloomed. It is beautiful and colorful and wide and has so many layers of petals that you can run your fingertips across them forever and each rim will still offer you something entirely new. Like all things, it has a heart in the middle. I did not bloom this flower. It bloomed itself. I was just the garden.
Dear You, Who is Also a Tree—
This is a love letter because there are still some places where I can't use the word without tripping over myself. Have you ever wanted to tell somebody that you loved them, but you weren't even sure how you meant it? Well, I love you, whatever that means. I just hope it reaches you in time, but I'm also no longer pretending that I know what time is up to these days.
Dear—
This is a love letter. Maybe also a grief letter. Maybe, though, same-coin.
This letter is addressed to you if you want it to be, and it's not if you don't. I think with grief, we sometimes just need a witness. I write this letter in case you do, too. It's been a really hard week. Mostly, I've been coping. My heart's been about the breaking lately. Once this week, it happened that my heart broke all the way down. But then ten minutes later, I thought up a riddle: Fuck, fuck, fuck, how far down does down go if that down wasn't all the way down?