It’s hard to write about situations if you’re in the midst of sorting through. It’s hard to write about people who are actively in your life. It’s much easier to discuss them once they’re long gone. I’m working on that.. although I’m not quite sure I’m there yet. But what happens when they don’t leave? I don’t want stories to go untold, for the sake of my own comfort. There isn’t a damn thing comfortable about writing.
I remember looking at you on a screen and feeling my heart sigh. Here you are. The most beautiful things about you weren’t your sculpted arms or unruly stubble. No one else had ever spoken to me with such careful kindness. No one else had taken the time to understand how my ears affect my heart. You were the first one I heard. (Why were you the first to try?) “Your ears are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known,” you whispered. And I heard you. They gave you a special way to come through for me. How did you learn my language so quickly? Each word careful and beautiful, for my once inadequate ears. On our first night, you awakened my heart in ways you never should have tried. But I was glad. It was always your careful words. Your beautiful, careful words. One of the first things I told you was how I longed to write. I told you how sometimes my hands shake when a story is trying to escape my fingertips. That’s when you knew to choose those careful, beautiful words.
When I first touched you, your body trembled. Tense, shrugged shoulders and a bent brow. You bit your inward turned lips and slowly stiffened your fingers. And all I did was graze your arm. But just as suddenly as you recoiled, you found those beautiful, careful words. I heard and I breathed. You urged me to come closer, closer, and closer, still. But winced when I obeyed. You scrambled around your pants pocket for your words, fingers flailing, surveying the tight area.
I’m a writer… and words aren’t enough.
To be continued, maybe.
Because I don’t know how to explain, yet, how everything blew up and how the words were never beautiful… they were plagiarized. I don’t know how to explain that you studied me before you approached me, so you could master my passions. How do I explain that you aren’t eloquent and careful… you’re just a cheap copy? The brutal part about it all is that you brought my beautiful, fragile ears into it and now you’re holding them hostage. I can’t forget how you responded with gentle patience and concern. I couldn’t forget it if I tried. And I have tried. But with every snarky hearing joke, I think of what you would have said. How do I explain that I could Google all those beautiful words and find them in quotation marks signed sincerely, Miss?
I can’t explain those things. Those things are the things that make me cry because I believed it all.
I believe it all.