Words, interrupted

Truth has many versions. Let me show you mine.

You keep creeping back into my subconscious. Why? Can’t you let me go?

Or is it because you know my love for your words was real?

I know you know my love for your words – for you – was real. That’s why you ran. You couldn’t bear it, the messiness that comes after the thrill of the chase.

Not that you chased me.

Initially, I thought I was just a trepidatious backup option, a cautiously optimistic possibility. You wanted to wait until I was able to display war wounds, similar to yours. 

“Take out your frustrations on his cock,” you said, implying there would be many cocks to go through before you considered yourself ready to accept the tentative possibility of me with you.

I deleted every social app at that moment. It’s not how I’m wired.

And then, the words happened. A misunderstanding based on awkward timing and foreign comments. Alien comments. Judgemental comments made out of context, because they did not see the context. 

You attributed weight to their words, instead of mine, which sent us both into panic mode and, as predicted, inevitable disconnect.

And that’s how I knew about the chase. It wasn’t until after you withdrew from me when I realized, the chase had already begun.

“I’m going to disconnect for a bit,” you said and you pierced my heart with the last word. 

Bit.

What does it mean?

Clever, I thought. Keep that door slightly ajar just in case…

In case of what? 

Looking back, I see it clearly now. The chase was in its infancy, a step onto the threshold, but not yet over it.

The chase was in its virginal, unadulterated inception.

But that is neither here nor there now.

I’ve come to terms with our interrupted connection. I understand what happened.

I understand my version of the truth will never match yours.

I also know we are both self-proclaimed trigger-enablers. That was the first clue, the flag we should have paid attention to right from the very beginning.

Trigger. 

Enablers.

It’s a clever use of nomenclature that only you, crafty wordsmith that you are, could come up with. 

I bow to your genius and acumen. 

We are trigger-enablers lost in a sea of silence. 

But unlike you, I was — still am — ready to write the words that lead to healing. I offered to talk, but talking is overrated. 

Write we must. It can’t be stopped. Interrupted, maybe, but never halted. 

The written word needs readers. And if the reader refutes, then the words will drift without destination.

So I will write and publish. It’s what I do.

Deep down inside, I know you want to read my words. 

And now, you can. I hide in plain sight and all you have to do is find the will in your heart to seek, and you will find my words. 

Must I spell it out for you?

There are no words that can break us, you see. They bind us, unequivocally and eternally, if only in memory.

For now.

Perhaps there will be attempts by others to reach you the same way, with clever words you admire and cherish. People you hunted and penetrated, admired and adored.

Lusted.

Maybe even loved.

Will you say the word to them? The one that begins with L and is preceded by a pronoun? Or will they be subjected to unsolicited tough love?

Only you understand what I mean. 

I wanted, needed, and finally processed your unsolicited tough love full of implication and hope. It was more than I hoped for and it propelled me out of my fantasy world and into reality. 

I have you to thank for that. 

But your words broke me. 

Broke us.

Now, the silence hovers between us; somber, desolate and motionless.

I accept. I have no choice, except I do. I choose to accept. 

I cast my sight into the future. New opportunities abound.

My journey has just began. I am ready, willing and capable.

I march to the beat of my own drum. 

But your words weigh heavily on my heart. Unanswered questions prevail. And I worry, not so much about me, but about you. I know you. You process like me, with words on a screen.

Burying the words behind impenetrable walls will never set you free.

I wonder if others are capable of the same destruction I have unleashed. Am I the only one who encompasses this talent? To break up the words that inspire and bind?

Not everyone can hide in denial and vigorous exercise. Not everyone is wired like you.

I can feel your void. It mirrors mine.

I fear that ultimately — inevitably — someone else might find a way to write the words that unintentionally trigger and injure you. Or hurl them out impulsively, in the heat of the moment, at the top of their voice. Or, type them into a keyboard in haste, without regard for consequences, published for the world to see.

Just like it happened before.

But here’s the thing:

Deep in my core, I know that our words, past or future, cannot break us. 

For nothing real can be threatened. 

Of that I am certain.

*Thank you for reading my words. This is an open letter to my friend. May you open your heart to the one who is worthy of your words once again. This is my wish for you. 

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