A Letter for a Pisces

Reading will not be good for you.

You are fickle and uncertain.

You are symbolized by an identity that is broken,

selves within selves folded into each other

like batter and eggs or blankets and skin,

leaf upon leaf. Then you have to be careful when it pours.

Rain will not be good for you. Like a trance,

you will pray, “More rain please. More.”

You will repent.



You will acknowledge the heaviness of the air

and your own hands will weigh you down.

A contamination of green.

Limp. You will have to tell people,

“I’m a Pisces.” because people are not sensitive;

people will not take the chance to know.

“I’m a Pisces.” That means you are gullible.

That means if they tell you they love you,

you will probably believe them. That sometimes

you sit very still and hug your knees and swear

that your heartbeats are almost like geological tremors.

Forceful. Purposeful.



Sometimes you think its bizarre

that there is even an inside of you.

You thought you’ve destroyed

the complete set of bones and extra lung

and the carefully engineered systems of veins and blood

and muscle from all the internal wars. Monologues.

Like an ancient ruin, you could not believe

you stood.

Reading will never be good for you.

There is the risk of fire.