Be delicate with my gentle soul, and the anger will fade.

Why do you scorn me so? Destine me to a dismal existence of expecting so much from a pinprick in the blanket of hope you ripped from beneath me. You leave me with thoughts I can’t tame whilst I can’t fathom the secrets of your mind. Oh Mon Amor there are reasons as to why “longer” and “stronger” should rhyme; hand in hand they rise to mock as the longer you leave me, the stronger my love fuels my anger and like Autumn winds, they will prevail.

I shall not be weak and bury myself, nor shall I hand you the shovel. Mon Amor I shall wait for you to break ground and converse. And perhaps then I may scorn you in return. Some days I pray for the courage to retaliate, but to you I could never. I could never unless it would make you smile. For right now, I long for your smile; breath-taking and a little crooked, and rarely does it reach your eyes as they smile of their own accord. Sometimes I dream they are smiling at me, simply because I am me, only now I’ve begun to notice them smiling at all, my friends and indeed my foes. Placing me at common courtesy with those whom I detest.

Is this scorn also? I can no longer tell what is mockery and what is fear, if fear exists at all.

Oh how I wish I knew if fear existed because to know that would be to know all. I could end the torture of wondering, of confusion, and be truly at peace with that knowledge. Whether that peace be happy is a luxury I’ve unwillingly placed in your hands, Mon Amor. I pray be gentle with my delicate soul, and one day, I may explain what these words are about.

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