Why? I asked in a desperate voice.
And in a futile attempt to quiet my fear of loneliness, you
stammered a few empty words, hollow as a rotten tree, as a
suit of armor left to rust.
Your words had so much meaning previously, so many feelings,
so many thoughts. Now all I can see in them is the awful
colorless texture of nothing. All I can sense is you trying
to be who you are not, trying to resemble the incomplete
image in my mind.
My mind was yours, but you did not care enough. The
imperfect you ascend further than that image. The imperfect
you is far more beautiful. Fear not of who you are, nor of
the way you seem to me. Instead, dread your own personality
in front of yourself and your values. Dread the one
reflecting in the mirror; dread the one you have become. By
not being your true self, you have created that beast, that
monster which consumes everything there was. The creature
with flamed breath burned all the bridges, all chance to be
again, who you were.
My heart was getting closer, I nearly surrendered; I nearly
gave away everything that I was. You nearly had me, but you
were not you.
I remain myself. I stare at my reflection, and I do not
flinch in fear. The fear of the discovery does not lay
between these lines, only between your own words, your empty
shallow words.
I am whole, in a way, in a sense. Imperfect, impure; but
also important. If one cannot see his or her own beautiful
human self, one can never be happy.
All we strive for as humans sums up into one small moment of
joy. One fraction of a second; one blink of an eye.
And then, it is all gone. Hollow as a rotten tree with
withered leaves, as a suit of armor left to rust, with no
one to sacrifice, with no one to gain.
I miss your empty, shallow words; I miss the one I thought
you were. But I know better than to come back upon knees, my
values stand high and tall in front of my eyes, right where
you once stood, but no longer.
No longer.