A Letter

"First comes the feeling of abandonment, then trying to cope. then death and hope and the thing Itself, waiting for me." - a Departure, La Dispute

I've tried writing this letter a thousand times but the words came out all wrong and I crumpled the paper up on the floor where it still sits until you, fingers black with ink, pick it up to keep. I left the room because I'd rather not see the look in your eyes as you read the lines written only about your lies, a painful honesty.

I've tried telling you a thousand times, and you always caught the lie as it bit my cheek, bleeding quietly inside. You smeared it with your fingertip like some painter's brush dipped in something too real to put to canvas, that would eat right through one less experienced but you always did have such a way of seeing through me.

I've tried hiding from you deep inside my worst fears but that's the one place you could ever call home, and I bet you like the twisted way my mind works, like some sick fantasy. 

You keep your hands in your pockets like they are birds you are desperately trying to keep from flying away and with each time your knuckles clench they flutter their wings, anxiously beating and trying to find a way out, a way to be free.

Every time the sunlight shines in your eyes you open them wider, like a challenge, but the stars will always win because they have such a larger infinity than you could ever wish for.

I've tried ending this a thousand times but I could never find the guts to call it quits, never find the way to forget and move on like they all say and maybe I've been doing it all wrong so far, but in the end when it's all just a story I will find the way and find the time to write you out. You can keep your ink stained bloody fingers beating like birds wings to yourself, stop clenching your knuckles and let them fly, let them clip and scrape and bruise, let the blood remind you of all the sins you owe to me. And with that, I say thank you and good night.