To the boy who holds my heart,
The way your soul encompasses mine, when you lay down beside me, makes my heart plead that you will never let it beat without you there to hear it. You are my nirvana – the labyrinth of my mind has no clear path, but with you at least it is illuminated. I make my way down each of its corridors hoping that I might finally catch you – the etherial being whose incandescent glow I follow. You weave your way from my brain, through my blood stream, and settle here in my heart. It is here that you cling to me the way I do to you, here on the inside, here in the serenity of my body.
To the boy who heals my wounds,
I need to explain why some nights I cannot do anything but be; anything other than use my languid arms to embrace myself in attempt to hold myself together; anything but let my wounds open themselves, and pump blood all over our clean state. Fear not. This is not me missing him – this is my body asking you to heal it.
To the boy who makes my body sing,
I regret to inform you that when you peak into my heart’s music box a ballerina will not rise to dance to a beautiful lullaby. Instead a repulsive shriek will exude, for it remembers the eyes that last peered curiously, and it has yet to learn to forgive them – or to forgive me for that matter. I’m sorry that my music is not the lilt symphony you deserve, but you have found other ways to make beautiful music out of me, with my body.
To the lover who challenges his fears,
All I want is to talk to you all of the time; out loud, with our bodies, and about everything we could ever imagine. I often keep these thoughts inside, because I am too afraid I will say the wrong things – that I will never hear your becoming voice again. It is not you who makes me feel this way. It is the anxiety that lies under my skin, making me itch and itch and itch, then bleed. Once it bleeds it scabs, and I am left picking and scratching until the wound is but a scar on my pale, blotchy skin. These scares remind me when I speak, warning me not to annoy you, not to scare you off. But you once told me that you do not scare easy, and you would fight for me against your greatest fears.
To the boy who carries us through time,
I know that with you I have found the kind of love my parents never truly had. I know that we are young and many might believe that this is a mere dalliance, a mere drunkenness on the elixir of lust, but a love like the one which we share is boundless. Eventually fate will spite us, as it does to all things good, and our duet will fade into two eerie soliloquies. That does not mean my soul will ever detach from your’s, or that you will ever let my heart slip from your broad, loving hands. A piece of you shall follow me wherever my body may roam, our souls intertwined, held together by the same matter that has wandered the universe since the beginning of time – morphing into different forms of the same love.
The One Whose Heart You Hold.
Above is a piece inspired by Darcy’s letter to Elizabeth in the novel Pride and Prejudiced by Jane Austen. This was originally an entry in my journal that I wrote one night after rereading said novel, and finally having something to compare it to in my own life. What both this novel and my own personal experience have taught me is that love requires one to sacrifice their comfort, and expose their most vulnerable thoughts and emotions. This sacrifice is not done without hesitation or fear, but once we allow our truest self to be known we allow ourselves to be cherished for the weakest parts of ourselves – the parts that are arguably the hardest to love.