Herself carefully peeled back the meaning of the words on the written pages from Friend. The caustic words which flew at her made her eyes blister with tears. Friend had put a stop to the game. She had written a series of her own "Herself" poems, and the time for worry had doubled upon Herself.

Friend wrote and wrote and wrote. Herself read:

Dear Herself, #1

I am awe-struck
by the timing
of your wise
decision to
purchase
a superior collection
of The Man's music.
Magic
is certain
to have played with
our cosmic bond
and produced
a wonder of wonders.
This is balm
for my devastated heart, for
I do not have
at my resource,
any amount of
huckleberry powder.
Sadly,
sadly, I must confess,
I never had any intention
of climbing a tree,
etc.,
etc.
and
the world would be
a stinking, rotting brew
of horrors
were it not for the one
bright light I see.
In a matter of days,
surely not weeks,
thirty eight songs
will fill your home
with the glory of a god.

Look sharp!,
Friend

Dear Herself, #2

Herself the Elf?
Thinks she can break
a date
just like that?
Appointments?
She didn't have them
and then she did...
is that how it goes in
Elfland?
Tim
asked if you would be free
Friday
in the evening.
Tim wanted to enjoy
an evening
of basking
in giggles.
Nix will be
the reply
from herself.
Sister.
Where is said sister?
Boo.
Boo!
Boo hoo.

Friday,
Friend

Dear Herself, #3

Aye!
I have been quoted.
I have been deleted
mysteriously.
I wonder if
herself
remembers
that being in love
is not
always fun and games.
I wonder if
herself
wants to hit me
for saying that.
I wonder if
herself
realizes
how sick her friend is
and how many
compromises
she has to make
to get through
any given day
without
driving the knife
deeper into
her own chest.
I wonder if
I am going to make it
to the end
of today,
or even this email,
without doing something
wrong.

Don't wanna be like that,
Friend

Dear Herself, #4

This is the truth...
I never know
from one moment to
the next
if I will be...
laughing or crying,
industrious or wasting time,
creative or uninspired,
strong or weak,
complacent or angry,
accepting or critical,
capable or childish,
blissful or in agony...
manic or depressed...

I don't have a choice.
It isn't funny or fun.
I'm not proud or embarrassed.
I'm sick, damn it.
I am incapable of
living by myself,
making a living,
and raising my children...

and I refuse not to be
as happy as
I can be.

One to one, enough is enough, rant and rave (with a) happy ending,
Herself's Friend

Dear Herself, #5

My dear friend,
please find your way to me
as soon as you can.
I need you.

Got the time,
Myself

03/01/2006

Author's Note: Writing this in conjunction with Friend.

Posted on 03/01/2006
Copyright © 2024 Kyle Anne Kish