Blood Stained and Lettered

Chapter 5: Line by Line

Sometimes, I don't want to write a word. There's paper and pen, things I want to tell you, things I want to say to you. But I don't write a word of it.

The paper stays blank, and I sit there, because that's therapeutic too.

I just sit here, and let my thoughts run away. I don't see the paper, don't feel the chair—I don't recognize the pen; don't think about words at all, actually. I just sit here and I—it's funny, I just—... It's kind of embarrassing. But maybe like this, it feels like we're not so far apart.

There are things that I want to tell you, that I don't. And sometimes I get angry, because I tell you everything, and I think you expect it from me—I feel like I'm lying, by not saying anything. Maybe this is my act of rebellion. Maybe I want you to get angry at me—angry enough to say something. Angry enough to write me a letter. Worried, anxious, as if you thought I'd already kicked the metaphorical can.

But I never do.

I think that's kind of cruel to you, so I don't—I can't hurt you, you know I can't. Can't bear it, actually. Because you're that paint blotch, on that painting I want to throw at the wall.

I want to tell you all of my doubts and fears, that I'm scared I'm not who I think I am because sometimes—sometimes it's human nature that I doubt, and since I'm human too—

Sorry.

Just… sorry.

I don't think I want to send this letter to you, actually...

You know what? I wish I could stand to bare everything to you, to have you as me as I am of you—but I can't. That's not how it works. There's a barrier between you and I, that which I can't break down because I won't, because there's something sacred about it, that separation between us. I don't want it to be there—but since it is, I feel like—

I'm rambling, aren't I? Geez, if you weren't tired of me alreay, I guess now would be the day.

...I stare at this blank piece of paper, and I think…

I think of you.

I think of your breath, on my cheek.

I think of your voice, near my ear.

I think of your hands, guiding me, like you've always been there since the very beginning even if you haven't but it's fine because—

...I think I've gone too far. Sorry.

Sorry for saying sorry—I know you hate it. I can feel it. You never speak a word, never send a single sign, but I—I know. Okay? And that's why it feels like betrayal because I don't know if you can feel me like I feel you.

As if I've walked across some line that you can't see and I'm some type of intruder—

I know I haven't said anything before this. I know this might sound kind of sudden—it's not like I've planned anything—and I know, I know that there is hardly a chance that you'll take me seriously... but here it is. Here I am.

Just Harry. Just a stupid boy living in a stupid world and so utterly, stupidly in love with you.

Is this innocence? Is this what it feels like—to be as timid as newly landed snow, as clear as the drops of rainfall clinging to the grass, as smooth and fragile as a shard of glass from a window pane… All of these things, so insignificant and weak, with their own momentary period of grace when they're beautiful and untouchable—so brief, before that beauty fades away, just like morning dew.

Is that innocence?

Is it?

I've fancied myself so strong and jaded for so long that perhaps I've been in denial the whole time. For what do I know? Nothing but want, nothing but dreams, nothing but the smile of innocence instead of the kiss—denied what I want and stuck in a perpetual state of shy desire, and yet there is not enough want to escape.