Who I am to you

A Poem by ohsograceful

A series of letters to my own mind

It’s been a long time since I have written to you, my old friend. I apologize for my delay but I’m here now. I have felt you growing restless, striking in the moments before I fall asleep. I expect we’ll spend some time together this weekend, so I’ll keep my address brief. Since we are stuck together in this, I owe you this much, I will not deny you.

Regards,

Your keeper

We danced again under the moon and stars. They are nothing special, but romantic because you made it so. You played the music while the siren played with me. You let the siren out and whispered sweet nothings while I was wrapped in my own embrace, trying to kiss the broken parts of myself. There was a time when I believed what he told me, that there was something beautiful about being broken, that I was some kind of brave, silent hero for enduring my own suffering. He told me that beautiful was silent pain behind a smiling face. He taught me to let people get just close enough to know, but not enough to understand. He taught me to hide behind layers and layers of silk wrappings and painted masks while I was left mummified. I could forgive you though, for all of this, had he not also made me believe that I did not deserve love.

Regards,

Your Ex-Lover

I know my dramatic tendencies irritate you at times, but indulge me as if you have a choice. You let the monster out again. It had been so quiet, I nearly forgot him.

I’m sorry the pills hurt you. I’m sorry they slow you down and dull you against the endless wheeling grindstone, but we need them. Without them come the convulsions, the vivid dreams, the terror, the siren. To be free I must restrain you and that was a choice I had to make. Please understand, my dear friend, I chained you to make us free.

Regards,

Your Warden

There is something we must do, if we wish to live. She has bled into every part of us, leaving us drowning in this solitude. No, solitude is too peaceful for what this is. This raging silence. This tell-tale heart must be locked beneath the floor boards or we will surely go mad. Better to suffer this acuteness of the senses than relax in the arms of insanity, do you not agree?

Regards,

Your Comrade in Arms