Dear William,

You have to write our stories. I know you don't want me to tell you that, but you are in the bathroom brushing your teeth so I'm safe. I do a lot of things when I know you can't see me.

Don't you think it's time now?

I do.

I'm getting bored. Play with me. You know what's inside your head, thousands and thousands of them, all there. Let's go see what they taste like and how fast they run and whether they have secrets. Secrets are like squirrels.

I'm going to keep poking you in the brainbox until you listen to me. This dress doesn't fit and my feet need a wash and the cat smells funny, like old breath and tombs. I don't like all the scribbling you do in that language of parathessssesssis and symbols. It's a kind of magic, sure. But it's not my kind. It's not really yours either, but I know you have to pretend it is parttime.

They are waiting, though. They can make things good for you. They can also make them unbearable. I'll let you choose which one you want.

Oh, and I'm not letting anyone talk to me because then you'll know I wrote this. So, shhhhh. Secrets are like fish.

I love you, Shiloh. Go crazy. It's not worth it to stand still too long.

Also we are out of peanut butter.

- Mickie