This just might be, the last letter I ever write to Helen. I hope this is the last letter I ever wright to Helen.

I can still smell the burning cigarette on my skin,
But it isnt enough.
I will never be convinced,
that you held me so tight.


Today it was 84 degrees outside,
you and I were supposed to go on a picknick in the park.
I wanted to hold your hand,
and all you could do was hand me you cigarettes.
And when you called me on the phone today I could sware I never felt so many razors cut my wrists.

You talked about the first time we smoked together
and your trip to Alaska,
And thats when I hung up.

Helen,
If you could please stop treating me like this that would be great,
because I dont really care if he has a new motorcycle,
or tea recipe I should try.

I care about you,
your ash stained fingers,
and that polaroid we took together last fall.

I knew you could tell something was on my mind,
Darling dont worry,
really its nothing,

Please dont worry about me,
my note book,
or the crystalized tears left inside.

Darling when Im without you,
I cant think of metaphors and other creative things,
just this window,
and the tears that are dripping down the sides.

And Helen I know this all sounds depressing,
But please forgive me,
Because the clouds are truly beautiful today,
and that noose you tied
will top even the dullest knife
I stab into my chest.

Helen I really think that my depression,
and your anorexia would go well together.


We could move to france with eachother,
buy a small house,
fall asleep to silent movies,
and wake up to the sound of vespa scooters,
and the smell of fresh baked bread.

we could watch live music at small cafes,
and take lomographs of the Eiffel Tower.
Our lives would be filled with nothing that matters,
and everything we cared about.

Helen,
I called that old friend of your,
the one we ran into downtown,
the one with the boots.

When she picked me up,
I could smell vodka on her breath.

I remember that,
and we had a lovely dinner.

And now,
Im in the back of a motel,
in some city I dont even know the name of,
and im writing you these letters on the back of napkins.

Helen its 3 AM,
and that black crow over there
has the prettiest feathers ive ever seen,

I just wish you were here to see.