hot chai tea latte.

Dear Fleur.
I hated this morning.

Then it all got better.
Ria brought me home a hot chai tea latte from STARBUCKS.
Bright Star is on the kitchen table.
And,
I don't have to get my mole removed.

Oui.
You heard right.
That special little mole on my back, I don't have to get it cut off.

Face.

Bad day die.
John Keats fill my head.
And sunscreen cover me.
Love, Bella.

Peonies.

Dear Fleur.
•
She was upset of sorts. It had accumulated throughout the day and bottled up inside her chest. Too many short stories. Too little tea. Busyness. Having to do laundry. Wanting her bicycle to be fixed. And now this. This completely amazing man. And the words he wrote.
"I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days---three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain."
It was almost maddening.
So what did she do? She screamed in her pillow of course. And her two sisters never even paused their conversation a few feet from her. They didn't even look at her. They just let her scream. And suddenly it didn't matter anymore. Because they understood. And they didn't think she was crazy. She was just...her. Herself. And in that minute, she was mad that John Keats was dead.
But they were fine with that.
'Thank heavens for sisters,' she thought. And went to join their conversation about dresses.
•
Right this second I'm sitting on a hard chair wearing a little dress Ria made and a green shirt. There are some twigs in my hair. And I'm tempted to go make myself some chai tea. We're headed to the Church to do a little interview. Today is cold. And I think it tastes like plums picked straight off the tree. I've been working on a lovely little short story. It's actually upsetting me though. I can't decide which guy to choose. And they're both perfect in their own way. One literally is perfect actually. Maybe too perfect. But does she deserve someone who's not perfect?
I JUST DON'T KNOW.
The part I love the best so far:
A bathtub filled with peonies.
What girl wouldn't fall in love with that?
I guess I'll just have to play it by ear. Write it by ear really. Can you do that? Just wait for the story to figure out its own outcome? Maybe one of these minutes, in the quiet on the kitchen floor, his name will be whispered in my ear. And I'll know she's supposed to love him, and, well, not him.
Why did I make two boys?
I'm ridiculous. More screaming into my pillow is in order. But first, walking to the Church for an interview.
Love from Bella.

Birds.

Dear Fleur.
What if no birds sang?
Do you think more people would cry?
Love from Bella.

Darling.

Dear Fleur.

Yesterday:
Did you know Petra Mathers understands love?
I bought one of her books.
And I read it while sitting on the floor.
Wearing a knitted grey sweater&black tights while listening to Gavin DeGraw.
Then later on I went to the grocery store in my older sister's little blue and white flowered nightie.
With messy hair.
And then we went to REDBOX.
And rented "Bright Star."
Did you know I think John Keats was the most brilliant man?
That movie was darling.
It made me cry in my bed at night.
And from now on,
I will struggle to write poetry,
start a 'butterfly farm' in my bedroom,
love,
kiss all my letters I write,
and sew on my bed.
Because I think Fanny Brawne was the most brilliant woman.
And I secretly want to be like her.
Did you know the stars were really pretty last night?
They were.
I looked up at them.
While standing in the cold.
Barefoot.
Heureux.
It felt good.

Love from Bella.