Dear Cigarette,

you stink.

Once, I enjoyed when we were together. You were a good friend in times of need – always relaxing, always understanding, but for me, these times have long since come to an end.
Over the years, I have grown tired of you – but no matter how I try to show you the door, you still refuse to leave.
I will keep trying… and maybe one day, I will be strong enough to kick you out once and for all – for you, my former friend, are an unwanted guest.

The Addicted


Dear Sores,

for the millionth time in the past couple of weeks, I wish I could stop scratching. The scabs are yet tender, and I can’t seem to leave them alone. What lies beneath their fragility is much more vivid than what I have to face now… and I can’t really bring myself to accept the fact that soon, they will dry and eventually scar.
There is not a damn thing I can do about it.
A part of me appreciates the faint stabs of pain you cause. Even when my eyes roam elsewhere, I know you are still with me. It is a somewhat comforting reminder of the depth of my feelings. After all, I found I am still human. For that, I am grateful.

Nevertheless I would ask of you to help me still my hands by muting your sometimes fierce and fiery tongues – because we both know, it will be for the better… in the end. You were never meant to stay.
Let’s both be brave and get this over with. I know you can do it.
And so can I.

the Recovering

Dear Dishwasher,

It has been years since I last saw you and could greet you as a friend.
I think of you – think of the times I moaned and rolled my eyes whenever we had an encounter. I often pushed your buttons – and you were always forgiving.

People change.
I took you for granted and feel the need to apologize for the way I treated you. I was young and didn’t know what I was doing. I am so sorry.
Now, that you’ve been gone for so long, I can honestly say: I miss you. Dearly.

I am certain my dishes do not appreciate me invading their privacy every day – I often have to touch them in the most intimate places… it leaves us all feeling uneasy. Most of the time, we can’t even look each other in the eye afterwards… talk about awkward.

I want you to know that I can’t stop thinking about you. I saw your cousin at my friend’s house the other day – he looks a lot like you.

Perhaps one day, you will find your way back to me.
I will look for your coming.

With gratitude,
the Rueful

Dear Day,

I assume you think it’s fashionable to consist of nothing more than 24 hours.

Have you ever considered a prolonged visit? Perhaps 30-32 hours would be more fitting and might even underline your qualities in a more beneficial way – plus it would give us time to tend to things that really matter.
Less isn’t always more.
Sometimes I wish you would rethink your methods and grace us with your presence a little longer than deemed necessary.

I would ask of you to think about it.
Should you be willing to consider my request, I would be more than happy to schedule a meeting with the Sun and Moon to discuss cycles. I am positive we could come to a satisfactory conclusion for all parties involved.
Thank you for your time – I know it is precious.

the Rushed

In the Line of Duty

CONTENT WARNING: This piece of writing contains strong language. For mature readers only.

— photo credits:

“There isn’t much left to say between us.

The Keatons, that’s us.
Suburban home, two cars, one mailbox, no children, and one hell of  a mortgage.
My husband mows the lawn on every Saturday.
I tend to the rose bushes.

After being married for nine years, we barely acknowledge each other anymore.
We go through our routines, and hide beneath the perfectly safe shroud of long-term habit.
We function together – but keep apart.

Our weekly exchange of bodily fluids has long since turned methodical; he knows how to push my buttons, and vice versa.
Mediocre, at best.
I come.
He comes.
The ‘Duty-Fuck’… because, hey, we’re supposed to do it, right?

Afterwards, we watch TV.
He snores.
I do, too, sometimes.

There isn’t much left to say between us.

In the mornings, we sip coffee and read the paper. Sports section for him, Home & Culture for me.
In the evenings, we give ourselves over to mind-numbingly stupid TV shows. He hates them as much as I do, but they help to drown out the cacophony.

There isn’t much left to say between us.

I once said, “I do.”
I meant it with all my heart.

My heart must have abandoned me… somewhere, along the way.
Somewhere, between rose bushes and morning coffee.”

Written for Picture it & Write over at ErmiliaBlog. Grab a pen and join the fun!

Dear Monday,

Why do you assume your arrival fills us with joy?

News Flash for you: most of the time, you stink.
I’d much rather be in the company of your siblings Saturday and Sunday – perhaps you could talk to them and adopt some of their character traits?
Would be much appreciated.

Please be gentle when we meet this time around. Don’t be selfish.

The One Who Doesn’t Want To Get Up Early