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A letter to my hands

I know I taught you to hold on everything that disappears, too tightly.

I convinced you each time that things would be different.

But, I also taught you that you had fire in your fingertips and fight in your fists.

I taught you that no matter how much it would hurt you couldn't give up.
Nothing that would be worth it would come easy.

Sometimes you have to learn that you have to hold on in order to teach others that letting go is the easy way out.

I never wanted you to be the hand that let's go. I taught you to fight.

I fear you're letting me go.

I remember the days when I would sketch you over
and over
and over
I followed your angles like the path home.

I fear, I sketched you to remember your glory.

Together we have learned to heal. Your touch, my heart.

We've been the security for small hands searching for the hand that will never let go. The drier of tears. The creator of visual representations of all we see. The writer of words gone unspoken. The lover who cherished touching his body like the gilded treasures it possessed. The dancing fingertips playing silent music.

You have been my connection to the world. You allow me to experience my feelings in the flesh. You are the past, the present and
I need you to be the future.

I know I taught you to hold on too tightly. I know these days your hold is growing tired.

Don't let go. I promise I will never let you hold to anything I know will disappear any longer. I promise to take more care to recognize what you need. I promise to not push you to far. I promise to never let go. So please, don't let go.

We have tears to dry. Lips to touch. Small hands to hold. New places to experience through our fingertips. Rain droplets to collect in our palms. Skin to caress like the welcoming light of  the moon on water.

We have a hands to find that will never let go of ours. So please, don't let go.

I taught you to fight. I taught you to fight with love and commitment. So please, don't let go.


Your heart

-Melanie Hamblin

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Typed on Looseleaf Paper

Dear darling (or to whom it may concern):

First, please allow me to apologize for this most unusual format. Letters. Structure. Steps and stages, all of it's so old-fashioned. But so is undying love. Uncompromising good. So is easy joy.

So call me old-fashioned.

I would like to request a refund on the software that I've so recently purchased. All of the stories I can access on your system display in gray tones. I can't feel context on my fingertips. The only scent I breathe in is so much burning ozone. There's sound, sure enough, but there's no music.

I can make my own music. Please, be quiet. Just let me listen.

I would like to file a complaint regarding your customer service. I am not a customer. I do not want to be serviced. I want an old friends at the coffee shop. I want to be the new girl at the bookstore. Your online chat was helpful, though, after I ran them out of scripts.

Please stop coaching them. People can be lovely or hideous. They don't need to suppress that.

I would like to speak to your CEO. Your president. Your board of directions. Their administrative assistants and the fitness instructors that come by every Tuesday and/or Thursday. (Sandwiches are Wednesdays - too much mayo. Counter-productive.) Not to yell; I just want to meet them.

I want to know they're really there. Are you sure? When was the last time you checked?

So, in conclusion, I would like to thank you for your software. For your hardware. For your gray stories and your popular personalities. I think that what you've made is lovely,  in its way. Clearly, a lot of work went into it. Someone loves it. I've tried. But thank you, anyway. I honor the effort.

Even so, I just want my simple stories back. My human beings. My old-fashioned "feels".

So, with all my love,

To all of you,

From all of me,


A Person, Unimpersonal

P.S.: Bring back Firefly. That was the shit. Please?

Prompt: An expressive Anonymous asked me:

"Dear darling:"

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, feedback, reblogs, follows, and more!

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A Letter to My Face

Scars have never meant that you can’t smile. Ignore the commercials advertising another cream, another pill, another way to hide the leopard spots of your teenage years. You were human before and after, and when they tell you that clear skin is next to godliness remind yourself that no God could ever be so cruel, even with skin so pure. When a boy tells you that you have beautiful eyes, but the rest needs improvement, spit in his face, like the animal he thinks you are. Scars do not make you a leper, and nobody but you has the power to exile your own flesh. A girl will tell you that your face isn’t symmetrical, do not let this haunt you to the point of feeling like a distorted fun-house mirror. The best pictures will be the ones where you are happy.

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i get scared when i think of the word "leaving"

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Dear Mr

Hello, I hope you are well wherever you are. It is 7:16pm as I write this. I have had the longest day. I woke up at 6:00am, had breakfast at 11:30am and lunch at 3:00pm. I read "Post-Mortem" by Patricia Cornwell. I had spaghetti and eggs for lunch. I know the sight of those two on a plate is like a brother and sister trying to make out- it's just not possible, but I had it anyway.

Do you want to know why?

I will tell you why. It is because I could not write!

Yes, I was to sit down and write something sweet. It was to be some sort of sensible attempt, something better than the last one, but all I could think of was you.

Yes, you sent me a text yesterday at 8:43pm. You said you like me a lot and find me interesting and could not fathom why a beautiful and intelligent lady like me is single.

You know something Mr...words are like stones!

You can throw them at someone and they'll hit them right in the face. Once a stone is thrown you can never take it back- that's what words are.

You can also use them to build- to make the strongest foundation ever!

Imagine all those beautiful stones that still stand today.

But you said somethings and left them to me. You said them like some Scientist in a laboratory mixing chemicals and waiting for the mixture to either foam or turn pink.

I can foam but not turn pink- thank Heavens for that! But, listen here Mr, I did not write because all I could think of was this letter. I want you to call me this time.

I want you to meet me and look me in the eyes and tell me all those things you said. You know it is easy to text and type, but not to express our feelings with our voice. I want to hear you say those things because frankly speaking I would believe you if I heard you say them.

Until then,

Do not ever, ever have spaghetti and eggs without me! I have never enjoyed a dish as that!

Take care,


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A Straight Woman Responds To 377A

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You Lied

This punch in the heart
Is the worst sort of ridiculous
The kind that makes you crazy
in feeling alone,
or only
Only, reality is this:
- Life goes on
- I kept breathing
- And the world doesn't give a shit
Like you
Always the realist
Treating love like a sickness
Reduced to a statement
"It's sad, but true."
But the "it" is me,
And I was to you

But nevermind my madness
Or the amplitude of sinking stillness
Just watch the ticking clock repeat this
Second-song of clicking lyrics
Played for ones who never hear it
And the world that doesn't give a shit

I don't want to talk about it
I don't want to talk about it
I don't want to talk about it
I don't want to talk about it...

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a letter from Me to Me

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