Love letters to myself.

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Remember when you were afraid to sleep alone at night and so you drove to Utah and almost ran out of gas on that winding road until you found the one fuel station for 90 miles and inside was a woman and you talked about adventures and bought a postcard to mail to your mom. You drove another ten miles to a camp spot and cooked yourself spicy noodles and drank a beer and watched the sun set. You read Abbey in the tent and liked yourself. That was the spring of 28.  You kept going toward Las Vegas, and called N and R who told you to get your tired butt to their hotel and drink champagne and dance all night at the UM show. The desert air hung over you like a chandelier and you peed near the fountain while the colors swirled around you in safeness.  When the sun rose you drove all the way to Joshua tree on that bumpy road and wondered how many people have died in the Mohave desert and if your bald tires would explode from heat exhaustion. The acid lingered in your veins and your kaleidoscope eyes took in the empty expanse of boulders and silence.  You sweat through the days under the tapestry fort you constructed between two rocks and covered your skin in coconut oil to protect it from the dry winds. You ate oranges and climbed barefoot and wrote dozens of pages and touched your face to feel real and read Tom Robbins and cried a lot. You felt like you were going to fall off the edge of everything.  You drove to the ocean and jumped into the freezing water and did a cartwheel and bought chips and salsa from the overpriced pier restaurant.  You wore that kimono every day over your swimsuit and a chaco tan of dust and sun on your feet. You called old friends and asked for advice. You listened to some of it. You drove to a hostel in Pacific beach and smoked cigarettes with strangers. You forgot yourself for a little while and denied your truth. You reached out to the edge.

Then, you slowly began again.

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