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I could feel your words seethe from your fingers, a building of information, of experience, that absorbed me in its genius, an oddity that surpassed the average intelligence.
It was an agreement then, a commitment: I was to commit to writing you, and you were to inform me of my areas of growth. You would exceed my mode of perfection, and polish with the precision of your mind.
I read with anticipation, of gaining knowledge to my already advanced outlook. The sentences you acquired brought me in, thrilled me, as I neared the path of the success I’ve always dreamed of, but never imagined reaching.
You were intent with me then; you would refer me by the names of “beautiful”, “talented”; you described how my words would burst with flame, shine like gold -- that I have this possession, and by your guide, you would further light the fire. That in order to progress, you need to exceed the ability of simple romance; you need to put all your life, all emotion your heart concedes, within the words you create. I was satisfied with these standards then, yet oblivious at the possible outcomes.
I was content with the material I sent you. I had justified it to my greatest capability, and reeled you into the fluidity of the prose. You asked me to take myself more in depth, explore my desires and to write them in a powerful way -- one that pulsed, caressed, taunted.
It was then I received your call. It was much the same as it started out, seeming like a typical conversation, a check up on the family as you were sick in the hospital. Initially I thought you were seeking solace in me, as you felt comfortable talking to me; I know now that I was mistaken.
The tone of your voice changed as you began to reveal a part of you that I never really knew of; I sensed sadness, confusion in your voice, but didn’t inform you of the change. I kept silent as I listened -- the shrieks I heard within I held inside, feeling that their warning wasn’t of importance. I could feel a heavy weight pressing down on my heart, beating the same confusion inside me. You spoke with such tenseness, such wrong, that my heart recalled the difference, alerting me conscious.
An overpowering numbness vibrated my nerves with crushing guilt. You had said you would be unconditionally in love with me, if you were fifteen; so much that it would reel me into the same temptation, the same wrong that you felt. I’m in love you, Anne Marie. I love you, so, so much, your words implied; I’m in love with you.
It was ungraspable, the power of the pressing.
As we departed then, the numb evoked rippling shock, flowing through my icy veins. My lonely heart beat in lulls, my fingers trembled at the scarcity. As my parents returned home, the press would not enlighten me. My heart churned in painful, miserable drags. My veins rushed electrifyingly, curling my thoughts in the embrace I feared most.
It was then that I opened your email. The content I read then had enough impact to alter our relationship. The encouragement you withheld brought me into your taunting tone, the task of such sinful standards...to observe my emotion through the stimulation, and invite you to observe the writing that was born. To share it with you, so you could scrutinize my voice that I formed by your obligation. A distant voice, foreign voice, that didn’t reflect me.
Yet through the mask I hid behind, you could sense the discomfort beneath my words. You could distinguish the shyness I felt in sharing such privacy, of such isolated procedures, with one that I shared my blood with. As much as your words begged forgiveness, irritation and manipulation shone through your pretense.
My image of you began to shift, beyond what my expectations could ever establish. The memories I have of you still remain in my mind, yet the console of them appear blurred, distant. The hugs you gave me then, I used to think of them as an open opportunity to embrace our similarities, as it seemed that way. From your acknowledgement, you understood me -- you gave me insight, pushed me to discover the most significant passion of my life, the completion of myself.
But the darkness you held enveloped me and left me in the shadow. A blow whispered away all relative love beyond the sky’s limits, and seared into the black night. My comfort has been replaced by your foolish pleasures, your weak mentality that you refused to keep silent -- and through your malicious mistakes gave life to the awaiting consequence.
The consequence that I will never be in your arms and able to love you as I once have, or listen to your words without an inept pulse; the emotions I felt then have not disappeared, but the purity doesn’t remain. The tears in my mother’s eyes invoke the evidence; that of your quick intellect, but ill-thought perception.
The shadow has slightly drifted, but the distance probes. Your touch will never justify, hold me as close as before. You may hold me with all your strength, but it will never again be as proximate.
The darkness of mind you possess has not been achieved through my mindset. My words will flow under my own sharpness of thought, and vulgar responses will not follow. In the instance I gave you my trust, I received abuse. The shadow has attempted to fold around me, but I have resisted the pressing. I will avoid the tears of dread, the conversations of confusion -- avoid the privacy invasions you would encourage even further; shun drowning my ideals in your world of sinful temptations -- I will level myself, and not lose myself in the madness of wrong.
My words will burst with fire, shine like goldâ€”
And I will resist the shadow.