Posted in Short Stories

Letter to my friends, whom I must protect from my own sharp edges

I do not know how to speak to you, sometimes. I know that my words will hurt you, but my silence will hurt you more. I know that you wish to know me, but you wish most to know the parts of me that shine and the grim polish of my serrated edges are not what you envisioned.

You signed up for my public self, and although you say you wish to discover my inner hollows, you flinched from the echoes of the chasms the first time you heard them, and I will not offer the location of the entrance up to you a second time. You will discover it of your own accord or not at all.

I do not know how to speak to you, sometimes. Our tongues are the same, but we speak different languages. You look for light and order, and I seek out the chaos and dance to the beat of dying hearts. The things which I cradle in my heart and soothe me into sleep keep you awake and screaming – how do we find common ground between us? Surely there must be some? We laugh too much and smile too frequently to be too different to touch, but I fear that our bonds must have been forged through a strange mishap, and I worry that seeking out the answer will break the links, not strengthen them.

I am sorry, my friend, for you are my greatest treasure, but I do not know how to treasure you as best you would like it. You are a festival day delight, and I am the dull contentment of wash days and daily duty. We are both important, but perhaps we were meant for different calendars?

I do not know how to speak to you, sometimes. Our pasts were as one, but our presents have drifted. Do you cling to me for mine own value? Or because you do not wish to lose yet one more thing? Are these two things so very different, in the end? Does it matter? Must everything in our lives have value to be valued? Do I take up space in your heart which might be better used? If you cannot wield the knife yourself, ought I to cut myself away from you, for your own good?

Oh, but my darling… The times when I know what to say! The golden, shining times when I speak and it brings you joy, when you laugh just as I had hoped that you would…

Those times, when it is not the brush of our fingertips, but the solid connection of our palms. When the words bounce between us, in some strange, joyful dance, with no drummer and only the high notes of the pipes…

You are the clear, sweet music of the Tower, and I am the deep echo of the cavern, but my darling, do not doubt how my halls resound to your voice.

I do not know how to tell you, all that you bring to me, and I do not know how to repay it.

But know that I treasure you, all the same.

Author:

Writer. Crafter. Nerd.

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