Letter

So it has come to this: you left me with a smudged, ugly scratch mark on my hands, and from the places and times you held me, leading me to this moment where I would fall. Gently. Because you didn’t want them to hear the crunch of my weather-beaten body slam into the ground. I had no choice, because it was easier than forgetting about you. It’s hard to hear the silent trickle of blood; but it’s there because I know it. I want to stop this nonsense because there is no hope for us. Because for all those days where I saw the back of your head I had forgotten to notice you had your back to me. Could I have seen some flicker in the trenches I sought through to get to you? Had I imagined it all along? The late encounters as a clandestine plan to revolt? Of course, I knew I had defied someone through these affairs, and even for a while I wanted to do it—to show them, to show you. It felt heroic. But in the end, the stars in your eyes had turned to coal and the lush ground I walked on gave way beneath my feet. I had sunk far bellow all of it before I realised I was miserable. 

-Amanda