dear torn heart and tangerine

Dear torn heart and tangerine, it is oolong tea-time again, and I am "dismayed," all things gold and orange feel in fact like love and home, but has it really been a calendar year, and yes, it has- I am so far away. I have mentioned, I know, that I live in Olympia, Washington. I am largely unknown and bear similar plumage to many of the other birds. I live quietly, make silent mistakes. My sorrows are only loud in their vibrations, shaking brittle ribs, I am learning to say Hail Marys, I prescribe myself nine hundred, they go this way: Hail Mary full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, amen. Being a writer means that a large part of you will never be understood by the people you love. Even not or especially by the ones you share tangerines with, brew tea with, I threw in much of the bag and L. said, "Oh" or "Whoa" and "Too much" and "Other words" that did not make me feel "Loved" but rather "Cold" as it was in that immaculate home, I thought it was nothing now, was gone, but I have surmised it is a rind I still press between my fingers. And finding oil there I cannot seem to let it go, to let it rot.