I wrote.
You came behind me and demanded.
I was shocked, my poetry was to be given as a gift and you demanded it of me.
I felt my face go pale and an ache started somewhere above my rib cage.
You said that you wanted to see what was coming from my heart.
If you wanted that, I would've given it, gladly.
I had wanted the first of my words you ever read, to be my finest work, I wanted it perfect, I wanted it to flow, like the chords of a song, I wanted it printed and my punctuation to be right for once.
But, no.
You demanded, you couldn't wait.
It would've been grand.
I mechanically handed you the ripped, lined paper I had so carelessly torn from my notebook, excited that the words had finally come.
Your eyes scanned the page.
I couldn't look at you while you read.
My mind raced to see what you saw.
The imperfections, the misspelled words, the way I had written so fast I didn't even bother to finish some words.
You put the paper down and walked away.
I almost wished you'd said something, anything.
A praise, a criticism, a laugh, but no semblance of words came.
I quickly shuffled my messy papers together and hurried from the room
My body had gone still and white, but my heart was weeping hot and black.
I met her in the hall, she said she saw the utter panic that showed when asked to give up the mangled paper.
I simply walked past her, my voice pale, I had no words, except these few that I choked out, "I almost had it."
She nodded, understandingly, but I knew she didn't understand, nobody it.
My wooden legs somehow carried me to my room, my refuge.
I wanted to scream, to pound out my frustration, but the red I felt inside, was no match for the cold cage that bound it.
I never finished the poem.
I tried. But my emotions were always such opposites, the hot weeping red against the cold, stoic, white and the red always won.
I really wish you hadn't demanded, and that you had waited for me.
And now, my gift is spoiled and I can only give you bitterness for words.
Perhaps, I didn't want to really be known, all my imperfections and torn pages being handed to another.
But, now, I have only bitterness towards those words.
The white now always wins, its a shame, it sounds so intoxicatingly
thrilling to be able to show such passion.
