Letters I’ve Only Told My Pillows

For the words that I only had the courage to whisper to my pillows. And to my pillows, who always listened.

[lettersisenttomypillows]

(Letter #5) Dear Pillows,

"Why does the world have to be so cruel?"

Sincerely, the sender.

[lettersisenttomypillows]

(Letter #4) Dear Pillows,

Do you ever get that ache in your chest when you try to burrow your feelings inside yourself? It aches like a deep bruise being pressed on, it doesn’t hurt enough for you to cry—but enough for it to become uncomfortable.

Do you wonder why we get these? Is it because the pain has covered my heart to the brim and every pump becomes a shout to be heard? Or is it the parts of myself I’ve hidden away? And when a small crack enters the surface it clings to the light, clawing its way out the best it can—trying to make the crack bigger—enough to fit through. Enough to reveal who it is.

Or is it my heart losing its place? Where the beating is slowing down and it finds itself in a monotonous cage inside my chest? One where I’ve thrown the key to unlock it many years ago?

I often wonder, Pillows, will my heart beat again? Will it race, not in fear, but in excitement? In love? In joy?

To be loved is to be seen.

To be loved is to be heard.

To be loved is to be held.

Where do I fall in between those, Pillows? I’ve long forgotten the sensation of the arms of someone, to find eyes that look at me, to feel ears that hear my words.

I’ll change your covers again. I promise.

Sincerely, the sender.

[lettersisenttomypillows]

(Letter #3) To my pillows,

How long do you think it will take for love to find me? The one where my stomach feels warmer than a belly full of food, where my heart doesn’t ache but flutters, where my smile reaches the corner of my eyes?

I’ve held you more than anyone else in my life, I’ve cried on you more than any shoulder, I’ve whispered things to you no ears have heard. And ironically, you don’t have ears nor shoulders.

You’re cold tonight; I haven’t hugged you yet.

I find myself staring at the wall waiting for something in me to change, a place inside my soul in which worries become peace and hate turns to love. Sometimes the hallucinations worsen than normal and I feel you breathing. Your chest rises and falls between breaths inside the lungs you don’t have.

Maybe you aren’t good for me, but I need you. You’re all I have left.

Sincerely, me

[lettersisenttomypillows]

(Letter #2) Dear pillows,

"I kept giving pieces of myself, hoping someone would stay long enough to put me back together."

Sincerely, me.