January 8th, Year of Silence

It is when you see your blood, that you realize it was coursing through your veins all along. Then, you are fully aware that the hands that held something warm were yours. Sights were taken in – admired, loathed, quickly discarded – from your eyes alone. Small prints leading somewhere best left unexplored, were produced by your feet. You and me, we’re alive in a complicated age, in which answers only lead to further questions.

Robert has asked to see me, and I think too many years have passed. It isn’t wise, and there would be no kindness to our exchange. The reasons lack, because motivation is in repose. I know he has existed in my past, but it is that I recall it with force. The images do not come to me with facility. Those that I manage to pull through, speak of a man whose self-absorption led to the cruel treatment of a woman, too devoted to act with intelligence and dignity. When I understood it would be to my benefit to part ways with him, I couldn’t without biting into him first. So that none would walk away without their victimhood. So that none would be left with a reason to attempt to rebuild, what had so thoroughly been destroyed.

I possess nothing that would suffer injury, should he decide to pierce at me with his sharp tongue. My body, my heart, my turbulent mind hardens at the mere thought of him alone. It is for this reason that I will decline his invitation. If there is no potential risk, there is no possible gain.

January 8th, Year of Silence

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