1642734778_punk-57-pdf

Until we met.
I realize now as I’m staring into her angry eyes that hold a pain she’s
trying to shield from me, that there is so much more to her than what was in
her letters. And so much in her letters that she let me see and no one else. I
want it all.
“You’re so selfish,” she cries softly. “You take and take and take, and
you didn’t even think of me, did you? I was never real to you.”
The despair in her eyes comes through, and hatred winds its way under
my skin. I hate that she’s looking at me like I’m one of them.
Walking toward her, I force her back against the wall and pull my shirt
over my head, clutching it in my hand.
She stares at me, confused. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Look.” I hold her eyes, willing her to look at my body. We were too
consumed at the drive-in, and in bed this morning I was behind her, so she
hasn’t gotten a good look.
I light up my phone and hold it up, illuminating my skin.
Her eyes drop, looking hesitant, but slowly she starts letting her gaze
drift over me. And I know exactly what she’s seeing.
Her eyes fall over the cassette tape high on my torso, musical notes
stringing out of it, and the label on the tape reading The Hand That Rules
the World. It was a play on words from a poem Ryen quoted in a letter once
when she was encouraging me to start a band.
Her gaze trails down to the small black birds taking flight on the side of
my stomach and over my hip. Words float along with the art, reading, And
flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. It’s from Hamlet, Ryen’s favorite
Shakespeare play. I got the tattoo after Annie died.
She takes my phone and slowly circles me, shining the light and taking
in my chest and back, the Pearls of Wisdom down my arm—another letter