You are a Hand Written Letter in a Letter Box Crammed with Spam
after Breasts and Eggs by Mieko Kawakami
It is December and you are writing
as if the leaves on the trees were budding,
but they’re not. The words borne on the page
are like babies, who arrived in the world without
consent, without being asked,
whether they want their own, unique character
dripped down the side of paper,
paper that has already been written upon
a million times over, marred and marked and muddled
with other children who didn’t get quite so lucky as you,
who, while being molested by their uncle and uncle’s friends,
watch rabbits and ducks take shape in the clouds,
listen to other children laughing on the playground.