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Literature Text
Dear You (Nee: Myself);
Sometimes when I am hazy (See: Unconscious) and out of my mind I think back to those tumultuous days when barefoot was mandatory and dress pants were for old people - I'd laugh, but I wear shoes now to cover my feet, cracked from years of wandering down the same path, and dress pants to present a respectable front for society, that very same one which together we would shun from an alley while sipping cheap beer directly from the bottle, pretending it was wine in a silver goblet, keeping a lazy eye out for the police.
I don't know where we went wrong, where we separated and flew in opposite directions like birds scattered . My fingers lay unmoving on this keyboard as I try to come up with words to express my greatest sympathies for killing you, nothing seems to be acceptable. Nothing seems quite right. What do you say to somebody who's life you took - I am sorry, I am remorseful, I would do it again?
I heard from a mutual acquaintance recently that you were doing fine, just fine. I found myself an unbeliever, shook my head and clearly stated that without me, you'd be nothing, and certainly not where you are now. I wanted to take credit for your 'being just fine', I wouldn't let it drop, and so I looked you up. I took out old journals, I ground along the same stomping grounds we used to frequent together, I researched you until my eyes were dry, and I found that I didn't miss you at all (or did I?).
A hundred tear soaked entries depicting terrible instances where there was no food, no money, and most especially no alcohol or drugs to bring you through to another day where you'd wake up, with me beside you, to help you move along towards another night of exactly the same. "He doesn't really love me," you wrote with a shaky hand, "But he needs me, so I'll stay."
As it turned out, if you recall, he didn't really need you, though all the gentle urging in the world was necessary to turn your head towards the light and see that you could be happy somewhere else, happy on your own. Happy without the bruises, ecstatic (See: Rapture; ex: 'Subject to or in a state of ecstasy; rapturous. -noun) that you did not have to live for another person…except for me.
And then I failed you too, I took from you the one thing you needed to survive, your veritable life line - I took myself , stationed myself so far away that I wouldn't have to make excuses for what you did, so I wouldn't have to bail you out of your messes and come to your rescue. I bettered myself and I turned up my nose while you slunk off in to the shadows and found solace wherever you could, as long as it wasn't anywhere near me.
I did not take in to account the years of loneliness you must have suffered, how you were utterly dependent on a simple glance or touch from somebody YOU loved who did not appear to love you back. I forgot, conveniently, that you had an addictive personality and surely you must have wrenched yourself into a niche in your own personal hell while you drank underneath stairs in ravines and shot pure light into your arms while searching for your own God. Instead I pushed your remains underneath a pile of leaves and waited for snow to cover you, waited for you to decay.
For all of this I am sorry. I am sorry for subjecting you to the beatings, I am sorry for not letting you cry at funerals because I wanted you to appear strong, I am sorry for the heroin and I am sorry for the abortions. I am sorry that I made you feel like you needed to be in abusive relationships to feel loved, to feel like you belonged, to give you the touching you so hungered for (punching, slapping, biting, pinching, pulling hair). I am so, so terribly sorry I did not let you go your own way and find out for yourself what you needed to be happy.
But I am not sorry - no, I will never be sorry - for leaving you behind.
All my love,
Me, Myself and I
Sometimes when I am hazy (See: Unconscious) and out of my mind I think back to those tumultuous days when barefoot was mandatory and dress pants were for old people - I'd laugh, but I wear shoes now to cover my feet, cracked from years of wandering down the same path, and dress pants to present a respectable front for society, that very same one which together we would shun from an alley while sipping cheap beer directly from the bottle, pretending it was wine in a silver goblet, keeping a lazy eye out for the police.
I don't know where we went wrong, where we separated and flew in opposite directions like birds scattered . My fingers lay unmoving on this keyboard as I try to come up with words to express my greatest sympathies for killing you, nothing seems to be acceptable. Nothing seems quite right. What do you say to somebody who's life you took - I am sorry, I am remorseful, I would do it again?
I heard from a mutual acquaintance recently that you were doing fine, just fine. I found myself an unbeliever, shook my head and clearly stated that without me, you'd be nothing, and certainly not where you are now. I wanted to take credit for your 'being just fine', I wouldn't let it drop, and so I looked you up. I took out old journals, I ground along the same stomping grounds we used to frequent together, I researched you until my eyes were dry, and I found that I didn't miss you at all (or did I?).
A hundred tear soaked entries depicting terrible instances where there was no food, no money, and most especially no alcohol or drugs to bring you through to another day where you'd wake up, with me beside you, to help you move along towards another night of exactly the same. "He doesn't really love me," you wrote with a shaky hand, "But he needs me, so I'll stay."
As it turned out, if you recall, he didn't really need you, though all the gentle urging in the world was necessary to turn your head towards the light and see that you could be happy somewhere else, happy on your own. Happy without the bruises, ecstatic (See: Rapture; ex: 'Subject to or in a state of ecstasy; rapturous. -noun) that you did not have to live for another person…except for me.
And then I failed you too, I took from you the one thing you needed to survive, your veritable life line - I took myself , stationed myself so far away that I wouldn't have to make excuses for what you did, so I wouldn't have to bail you out of your messes and come to your rescue. I bettered myself and I turned up my nose while you slunk off in to the shadows and found solace wherever you could, as long as it wasn't anywhere near me.
I did not take in to account the years of loneliness you must have suffered, how you were utterly dependent on a simple glance or touch from somebody YOU loved who did not appear to love you back. I forgot, conveniently, that you had an addictive personality and surely you must have wrenched yourself into a niche in your own personal hell while you drank underneath stairs in ravines and shot pure light into your arms while searching for your own God. Instead I pushed your remains underneath a pile of leaves and waited for snow to cover you, waited for you to decay.
For all of this I am sorry. I am sorry for subjecting you to the beatings, I am sorry for not letting you cry at funerals because I wanted you to appear strong, I am sorry for the heroin and I am sorry for the abortions. I am sorry that I made you feel like you needed to be in abusive relationships to feel loved, to feel like you belonged, to give you the touching you so hungered for (punching, slapping, biting, pinching, pulling hair). I am so, so terribly sorry I did not let you go your own way and find out for yourself what you needed to be happy.
But I am not sorry - no, I will never be sorry - for leaving you behind.
All my love,
Me, Myself and I
Literature
For the Encounters I Never Had
I released my regrets like a million balloons
chasing the sky with their bright round bodies --
wingless martyrs caught each tiny breath of air
and soared,
a moment of epiphany
when your rubbery skin punctures
and the soul escapes.
There is no element light enough to lift me away,
no instrument to sever the strings that earth
my tiny anklets --
I sway with the seasons
as if I am surrounded by an ocean,
unable to tread water fast enough to run,
nor find the reach to break the surface
where those regrets float momentarily,
winking in the sunlight before they coast away,
waiting for my realisation --
they pollute my conscience
Literature
No Longer Anonymous
No longer can I remain anonymous, just another girl checking in for her doctor's appointment. The moment I tell them the visit is to be billed to the state, and present this voucher, which might as well be painted in bright red blood, dripping and leaving a breadcrumb trail for all, with a neon sign that reads "sexual assault," I become that girl.
I see the way their eyes change. I see how they look at me. The hardness of the day, painted in the lines on their face, softens, just a bit. Their eyes, normally cold and focused, now try to melt my heart with their temporary concern.
I sit in the waiti
Literature
Goodbye
Dear Mom,
I'm not a good son. I wanted to open with that because once the truth is stated, there's nothing left to hide. I'm not. It's alright, I know. I could have been spending more time with you, maybe just to talk or to listen. I didn't. I'm selfish. I've always been.
Some regrets we carry until the day we die. Some memories we cherish until that day as well. I remember Dad calling me on his cell. I had it because I was working for him. I was at the dump. I was emptying the flatbed of garbage with Robert. I remember the smell. It was stifling.
When Dad told me, I was numb. I was numb to the reality, numb to the stagnant air of
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Second place in #Xpose-it / #Live-Love-Write's Letters To Younger Selves contest.
April 9th, 2010 Daily Lit Pick of the Day News Article
Thank you, *DailyLitDeviations
This is for #Xpose-it / #Live-Love-Write's Letters To Younger Selves contest.
I didn't really edit this - it was pretty personal and I felt that straight out of the box, so to speak, was a better idea to keep the feel.
I am not a writer, so be gentle.
April 9th, 2010 Daily Lit Pick of the Day News Article
Thank you, *DailyLitDeviations
This is for #Xpose-it / #Live-Love-Write's Letters To Younger Selves contest.
I didn't really edit this - it was pretty personal and I felt that straight out of the box, so to speak, was a better idea to keep the feel.
I am not a writer, so be gentle.
© 2010 - 2024 pullingcandy
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Oh my word! This is lovely, amazing and everything in between if there ever was such a thing! You've really reeled me in with this one and I must say that as I took in each word, each phrase...a little part of me became this letter. The idea that you've left your younger self behind and are apologetic and sympathetic for that is heartbreaking, yet beautiful. I can't imagine how odd this was to write to yourself because it was odd for me reading it (in an amazing way though). You took what we all want to say to our younger selves and molded into this beautiful letter. And for that I thank you.
Oh and I love, love, love how you've added in things like...
"(See: Unconscious)" and "(See: Rapture; ex: 'Subject to or in a state of ecstasy; rapturous. -noun)"
I really found that made this letter stand out from all the others that I've read. Amazing job sweetie, truly amazing!