Dear Orange,
It seems that I have become “that girl.”  You know, the one who traces over an absent spine and screams at tomatoes in the produce aisle for being too delicate, too bruised, and for not being a vegetable.  I’m the one who begs the cashier to answer me, to tell me that I’ve not lost my mind, or that, if I have, it’s with him, tucked in the third drawer of his rosewood bureau, next to his woollen socks.  I dropped your mother (or maybe your sister) on the floor when they escorted me out of the store.  I stomped on her until she was nothing more than a clean-up on aisle four.  I am sorry.  You are bruised and I am sorry.
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear Floorboards,
I was not always like this, but you know this.  You felt his footsteps and soaked my laughter into your old, wood grain, so you know that I was not always alone.  You know that I did not always spend my days in the west corner of my bedroom with a bowl of alphabet soup, spelling out his name until the noodles dissolve.  Hey, could you tell me—what was it like, to feel us above you?  Are you bitter because we wore you down with our childish tantrums?  Did you feel lonely when our bed shook?  He wanted to replace you, but you know this.  He hated you because you always gave me splinters, but I say it was my fault that you are broken.  I break everyone.
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear Television,
Please tell me what to do.
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear Teddy Bear,
I went to therapy today.  The Television said it would be good, it said that and it said that antidepressants may cause a dry mouth, blurry vision, constipation, weight gain, loss of libido, et cetera.  (This is why I cry into pillows instead.)  My therapist told me that I should write a letter to him, even if I never send it.  I am scared, can I hold you?
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear Matthew,
You used to draw thunderstorms on the back of my hoodie.  You would trace nimbus and stratus clouds along the arch in my spine and then paint weather patterns along my hips.  Thunder trailed along my shoulder blades and lightning ran through the curve of my neck.  
You would say, “You’re a hurricane.”
I would answer, “I am Zeus.”
Tell me, was I your god?  You were mine.
These walls are lonely, the rocking chair misses you, please come back and bring flowers to the floorboards with your feet.  Oh, that was Demeter, wasn’t it?  Would you be my Demeter, too?  Come back, Persephone is waiting.  
Love,
Me.

Dear Mailbox,
Do you think he’ll come back home?  Do you think he’ll kiss me again, hold me, do you think he’ll cover the hole he made with his fist before he left?  If I’ve been invading your space, I’m sorry, but it’s HIM.
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear Marianne,
I’m filing a restraining order.  I know it must be hard for you, but I’ve already done all I can do.  Also, please stop looking into my bedroom window.  I’m seeing someone new, someone who doesn’t obsess over the hairs on my arms, and I think it’s best that you don’t see her.  
Best of luck,
Matt.


Dear Toilet,
Sorry I threw up.
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear (Chel)Sea,
I like to call you Chelsea because you are too real and powerful to be just inanimate, to just be moved by the power of the moon or something like that.  (I was too busy watching him to ever pay attention in class.)  When I threw up the other day, did you swallow the bits of me up?  When I threw up, did I get rid of him, too?  I don’t feel him in me anymore.  My stomach’s hollow.  Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, do you remember?  He and I, we used to walk along your shore.  He’d peel an orange, stare out into your blue curls of hair, and whisper.
He’d whisper, “I wish we were dolphins again.”
I didn’t know what he meant because, in class, I was too busy staring at the curve of his spine or maybe his eyelashes.  Chelsea, is he now buried in your hair?
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear Orange #2,
You’re lucky he’s not here.  The way he ate an orange, it was like he was making love to it, only, like he was making love to it and he didn’t care about its birthday or middle name. He would peel off its skin, bit by bit until it was bare and naked.  Then, he would suck it dry and leave it wasted.  I feel wasted.
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear Drink #1,
I’m not much of a drinker.  Really.
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear Drink #2,
Okay, I might drink every once in awhile, but only to see what the bottom of the glass looks like.  
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear Drink #3,
He used to hide a bottle of Chianti in the trick bottom of his rosewood bureau.  When I found it, he said that if he didn’t hide it, I would have drunk it all.  Right, sure.  Like I had reason to drink before he left me.  
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear Drink #4,
Did I ever mention that I was a lightweight?  My mother always told me I had no meat on me, like she was going to eat me.  I used to have nightmares of big ovens.  Did I ever mention that when I met him, he had Cheeto-colored hair?  I didn’t remember my fear of ovens until I saw his hair.  When I told him, he let it grow back to brown.  My therapist says that I have parental issues, but, really, who doesn’t?  My mother used to say my ribs would poke right through my skin, and, oh, hey, you’re empty.
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear Drink #5,
Cheetos.  Cheetos, Cheetos, cheater, cheater, pumpkin-eater.  His hair was a little pumpkin-colored, too.  I hate pumpkins.  
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear High School Yearbook,
He wrote, “Love you like the Virgin Mary, Marianne” on you in big, stupid, red letters.  I forgot that he was a failed poet.  I forgot how he tried to be funny, but his jokes always ended in a nervous laugh and an apology.  I forgot that I thought he was stupid, with his Cheeto hair and hollowed cheekbones.  I forgot that I thought he was pathetic, trying to paint cracks across his surface when, really, he was never broken.  His hair is a shock of white in the photo.  (Was he always a ghost to me?)
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear Drink #6,
I am lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely.  Someone once told me that if you repeat a word long enough, it loses meaning, but I still have a black hole in my chest that sucks up drinks just so it doesn’t close in on itself.  Lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, Marianne, Mary.  Anne.  
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear Floorboards,
Catch me, my head hurts.  Catch me; I think I’m seeing the stars he used to say were beautiful.  My therapist told me that I am obsessive, detached from the world, and possibly an alcoholic.  My therapist asked me out on a date, told me I was beautiful, oh, okay, I might’ve made that up.  I’m sorry I lied.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  “I’m sorry” has lost meaning.  Catch me.
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear Floorboards,
You are not a very comfortable bed.
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear Teddy Bear,
I must burn his things.  That is what my therapist said.  
He said, “You need to get rid of your physical attachment to him before you can work on the emotional hold he has on you.”
I’m sorry that I need to burn you.
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear Orange #3,
You are the last orange I will ever eat, and I’m only eating you because the oils in orange peels make fires the most magnificent red.  
Sincerely,
Me.

Dear Marianne,
Remember the orange’s mother (or sister).  Remember his hands.  Remember how to smile.  Remember the fire that ate up your back yard and his vegetable garden.  Remember the ocean, but not the two silhouettes.  Remember yourself.  
Sincerely,
Your self.