Dear Diary Edwards

By Nicholas Wilder Forman

Dear Diary Edwards,

I’m writing to let you know I don’t need to write to you anymore as I’ve made a new friend at the mall. It’s the first one that’s opened up in town since all the others disappeared and my new friend Chatty Beckham is way hotter than you. He works the punching bag kiosk. He holds the top three high scores and that’s not changing anytime soon. I realized he’s the best because after I got his number I had the first day ever that wasn’t the same as the ten before.
He invited me to a girl’s birthday party.
I was sooo nervous, Diary. Split in my lip. There’s a split in my bottom lip that you know about
and so I went to the dentist and they burned it so it wouldn’t bleed on her birthday party cake. I don’t know how I wound up being shorter than everyone else there. But maybe I’m just fatter. My stomach rifs at all of them. Chatty calls them the hounds. I love how pointed all your faces are guys, I just want to kiss you all. Feel ur bones against my shoulder. Everyone asks who invited me and I tell them Chatty did and they smile. I couldn’t find him all night until it was time to sing. Everyone there and me did coke. It was the best no kidding. The girl’s cake was wet and homemade by her best friends. She blew the smoke from the candles into my eyes.
Chatty took me to the cemetery after and he looked like:
Polo, tight punch blue punch into artificial candy. Punched on the poster of a battle bot tv show. I know we know we all see spiked hair sticking out. Chain and handcuffs made of glazed clay smash it into the wall of the brick factory. Hum like something is escaping the inside of the cheek. It’s ok and be quiet in the cemetery the grass is in night it’s blue don’t punch the tombstones. Use the one with your birthday as a pillow and watch the morning run at you until you puke it up. (He told me)
It’s Sunday now. I go home and let it take me further into itself than ever before. Homes third level with tighter warmer walls. Water drips slower from the ceiling. Peak but don’t watch the wind push the street. Fold your full body on a big chair that smells like old people. Stay there until you don’t belong. (I tell me)

As you can see, life is better and bleeding for me without the thought of you here. I didn’t think of you once in a million years on that yesterday. I only write you now because I’m the kindest person you’ve ever met, but I can’t be your guardian angel anymore Diary.
Please don’t right back,
I wish you the best.

Nicholas Wilder Forman is a writer and artist from Los Angeles. You can reach them on instagram @nickwforman