A LETTER IN ALL DIMENSIONS
one day, to begin.
and so the milky ink flows
as page scorns woes
releasing into kerosene night
carnivorous words to keep
the distance close
one call. relief points
murderous sunlight on Fall
is it too soon to be hopeful?
that we, naked and graceless,
can escape the shallow doom
that begrudges them all
two weeks. they overworried.
because our bones still chorus
harmonising with invisible tethers.
tectonic junctures between our souls
so even with distance,
our hands can still hold
ten calls. stardust through phone
parroting messages to and from
the parallel worlds, our rival kingdoms,
which we’ve carved into homes.
the flutters of your stories
are bows to my days.
your face the treasure I left in the bay
four months. Exactly.
spilling across the void that’s
paved with your flickering face
when the fear drip drips
through the mildewed ceiling
it falls into buckets. I collect,
try plug it; it seeps into pores,
adding acerbic teeth to my cause
seventy-four calls.is that all?
a lifeline turns into a lifetime
it grunts and charges, lumbering
until the mask comes crumbling.
it happens all at once - a single call, then
shouting match with no winner to the duel
half a year. trapped here.
hurling into my room,
searching skeletal arms,
sketching dust-lined palms,
for a taste of your embrace
that never resurfaces in
spite of all chants and necromantic curses
one-hundred and eighty-nine calls.
one a day, sometimes more
a swarm of vultures, gore-belching
as they stalk every weightless footprint,
for another excuse to call me slut, whore
thirteen months. the same prayer
desk becomes shrine,
wish I could turn back this wine
enough to nourish the flesh,
and keep the memories
leaching out of walls fresh
a dozen more calls.
why can’t I end this?
you scare me.
a vain vicious victim-playing
spider, curse, mould, virus
ruining all my duck-bowed dresses
I wish you’d never inspired this
a decade. do my letters still come?
they thunder through my hands, my skull
like a drum drum drum.
i’ve changed. I think- no, promise
the ink has curdled,
and my mind- it’s numb
this is the last. of the papered ones
a million missed calls
a number i cant block
and a cellar full of letters
to burn when (if) it stops
Maxx Xame, 18, Brighton - UK ✯ IG: @maxime_xame ✯ m.e.chautemps@gmail.com
“Maxime Chautemps (she/they) likes to remain undefinable. Writer, university student, solarpunk, cephalopod enthusiast, and general disaster, are a few ways they have been described.”