I don’t have allergies, but I swear it’s making me sick.

Dear,

I’m far too neurotic to be in this situation. The space between us is wide, empty, and fertile. Your sentiments plant ideas and, in the space, weed-like thoughts proliferate. They spread and grow over one another, until becoming a tangled mass that just hurts. And then they grow some more.

There are no pretty flowers to gaze upon. No nectar to attract hummingbirds and butterflies. There are only brambles not easily broken and the darkness that matures within them. It is impenetrable, and as long as there is space, the thicket will continue to grow.

So I must burn it. “This”.

I need to rejoice in the warmth of the flames and feel the release of the floating ashes. The comfort of the burn. I need the promise of germination and rebirth that is absent without death — and fire.

So retreat. Expand the space. Enjoy my warmth on your back as you walk away. But walk fast, lest you get singed.

Sincerely.

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