Rejected

Well, they pulled the trigger and I can’t say I’m surprised.

It’s hard to think what I have to say is important when every letter has “sorry to inform you” in the second line. What am I supposed to do with that? Pull up the planks of those sentences and nail together a raft as if that can take me to some island where my opinion matters? I wouldn’t even listen to me if I were all that’s left.

It’s tempting to hang on the first line of those letters. Just sit on the end of the first sentence, right on the T of “Thank you” or between the “oo” in “school;” where they’re thanking me for applying and it’s all praises for the hours, days, months, I wove into the stories; when it’s all a parade in my honor and the colors of the marching band are now my own; when the letter can still go anywhere, I tell myself. 

I want to let my legs dangle over the murky waters rising below because I have to keep reading even if I know. And before the words drown me, I stare forward and watch the pixels bend in a technicolor gradient that makes me feel like there’s something I have to say and maybe this time, I’m brave enough to let it be as wrong as it deserves.

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