letters to a lockwood — lena.
Jul 17, 2019 23:04:37 GMT -5
Post by 🌱 kaitlin. on Jul 17, 2019 23:04:37 GMT -5
m. —
i don't know how many more of these i can write without sending one. i don't even know anymore how many i've written, have no idea how many times i've laid myself bare on a crisp piece of paper, walked away from letter after letter dripping with tears and anger and blood.
are your hands heavy with it as well?
is your soul stained like mine?
i was trying to remember the first time that i wrote to you, and i finally realized that it was after mom and alice died. i wish i still had that damned piece of paper. i think that's part of what's hard about using you like this, about writing these letters that i will never send. i can never go back to my words, never go back to my emotions, never remember viscerally the pain that i felt in that exact moment. i remember it in flashes, remember being twelve years old, on the roof of my house, literally screaming at the stars to give my sister back to me. but i'll never remember exactly what i felt, word for word. thought for thought. i suppose i could just keep a diary, but i like this better. i like talking to you, even if we never speak.
i like the idea that there's someone out there who understands, someone who knows me, even without knowing me.
someone who could look right through me, see all the darkest parts of my heart, and not be afraid.
i wish i could send these to you, wish that i could actually have you weigh in. are you the boy in my dreams? the one who slips a knife between my ribs as i wrap my hands around his throat? are you the one who sings songs to the sun? are you a lion-hearted boy with too much world on your shoulders, or are you the dark knight with a sword at his hip and an army ready to tear my throat out?
i think, just maybe, that i might be.
— l.
