You cannot call me when you are in a state of awakening. You cannot call me when things are clear, when your words fit imperfectly together in a nervous state, a sober state. It's convenient for you. It's convenient for me, because I cannot handle the truth of it all.
You tell me about my Great-Grandfather and ask me to write about his opposition to the war. You fumble for the right words and tell me I am the next Capote. All the while I'm thinking about sitting alone in front of my birthday cake when I was ten, and watching how the storm you created made all the candles flicker as you slammed the door. It is a silly thing for a child's birthday to ruin your afternoon and I was terribly selfish, and for that I'm sorry.
I hadn't heard your voice in nearly a year. I try to decipher if you had aged. My ears hear the familiarity of the sound, but know nothing of the words, that lack such precise meaning. The words dance and I trip over them. I can't follow them, I can't move with them, it's a beat I cannot recognize.
And I fall back. I'm any age. I'm 30. I'm 16. I'm 4. I'm 11. I'm afraid to speak. Each word that I illicit from my lungs, each syllable from each breath, is reserved, because I know the consequences and I know the motions. It's a false move. It's a land mind. It's me having to filter. You'll be gone again, if my feet move too quickly.
The implications are unwavering. And I wonder if you ever have thought about what you created, as I wander through this, afraid of each word I spell out, each word I utter. I'm afraid of the doors that close. I'm afraid of the sounds of latches, of my own and of theirs, of his. So I step lightly, speak lightly, and I breathe lightly; and watch as the doors swing hard and shut tightly and I wonder, ever so slightly of your remorse. The non-existent remorse.
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