Dear Darling (I hope my dream never haunted you),
It’s easy to say nothing. It’s harder to try to form the words, to pull the veil down just enough, to get across what I want you to know without divulging too much.
But I get used to the silence. To the emptiness, the sound of my own voice echoing back to me from across the nothing. When you’re actually listening, everything tumbles out, and I’m left scrambling to grab up the pieces I’m meant to keep to myself. In the smallest of moments, my guts fall to the floor, like offerings to some blood god, and I’m left shaken and red in the face, my hands slippery and incapable of snatching them back before you see all their little imperfections.
I think part of the problem is that there are two versions of us. Sure, we exist here, in the now, but in my mind, there’s a fresh-faced 18-year-old girl and a world-weary 17-year-old man, and they’re colliding. Her eyes light up, seeing the entire world for the first time; he’s taken aback by her exuberance, the strange way she’s tearing herself open in front of him, desperately digging inside of herself with her fingers, proffering her bloody insides, and watching his eyes for acknowledgment… as if it isn’t morbid, as if it isn’t setting the stage on fire. And she’s never disappointed, not even once, not even when he scolds her. He steps forward uncertainly, puts her back together, and for the first time in the entirety of her existence, she feels whole, understood, beautiful. The entire universe explodes with possibility and seems more full than it ever has before, and she is soothed, despite the wondering ache in her chest. Suddenly, there is meaning that wasn’t there before. Hope for something beautiful and true and eternal.
And I still am that girl, clinging to that feeling, still trying to shove my heart and entrails into your shaking hands for safekeeping; oblivious to the fact that you can’t hold onto them… that maybe you don’t want to.
So, I’m sorry for the mess. I’ll try to clean up after myself, and be more careful about where I spill things in the future.