Dear Iris,
Hi. Okay, honestly, I don’t have a “best” friend. I’ve never had someone who I could tell everything. The deepest darkest corners of my soul, and the sunniest smiles. I have friends, yes. But I censor myself too much to tell people everything. Or anything.
But I guess you’re the closest, so this letter is to you.
Do you remember, long back, you had said “Ilta, why don’t you tell me anything?” And I skillfully shifted the topic and we talked about books and music for the rest of the day?
Well I have many reasons I guess. My head is the residence of scrambled glittering thoughts interwoven with neon strings.
It’s hard to explain. I’m hard to understand, sorry…
I guess I don’t like talking about my emotions. Especially my dark clouded negative emotions. And I’m…scared. I can’t bring myself to trust people. It frightens the daylight out of me.
When you have a problem…talking to someone who cares…helps. But I get paranoid. It’s almost like each time I tell you a secret (that is if I ever do) you’re patching up the holes in my heart.
But the problem is…you have the power over that invisible thread that holds multiple broken pieces together. You can pull it out, one small, simple tug and my heart will be wounded again. Ripped open. All the healing scars re-exposed, this time with added pain.
I’m sorry for having such messed up views. I’m sorry that I’m never telling you anything. But you have to see my point.
How will you? I’m never going to send this anyway…
I’m too scared you’ll give that tiny tug you know? I know you won’t. But you can. So I rather wait for my heart to heal itself.
But then we have days like this.
I know it wasn’t a lot for you. Maybe you don’t even remember it. But…you did it. And it left me terrified.
You care for me. You shouldn’t. You know that, don’t you? No matter how much you smile, laugh and hang out with me, you can’t fix me.
All your hugs can’t glue the shattered pieces that construct me. Keep away dear, you’ll be the one ripped to shreds.
Today, one of your friends was walking down the corridor in school.
And he made fun of my accent.
Again.
I’m sorry if I’m to Finnish for you. But I didn’t give it a second thought.
Well I did, but I pretended like I didn’t care. Pretended like it didn’t hurt. It always does though. No one likes to be judged on something as flimsy as looks, religion, gender, or sexuality.
But do you know what you did? You told your friend to shut up. You glared at him. You told him to never do it again.
Don’t do that. Don’t care.
‘Cause it makes me weak and I might end up spilling the constellation of secrets that I hold inside me.
Love,
Ilta.
YOU ARE READING
Inkless Letters
Random"There is not enough ink in the world to capture my words." * *** ********* The story of Ilta. And the letters she never sent. // Ilta has a lot of unspoken thoughts and suppressed emotions. It's becoming harder for her to keep them to herself. Bein...
