Minor Writings

My Puppeteer

     Never did I want another human to hold my own strings. I take solace and gain strength through the writings of Edgar Allan Poe in some peculiar way. Though, I take to heart a specific verse in, "Lenore." It goes as so; "False friends! ye loved her for her wealth
And hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health,
Ye blessed her- that she died."

     Long have I needed to release my pain and vocalize my experience from a tribulation that has long passed. It started a year and a half go when I reconnected with an elementary school mate over social media. The very strong friendship I once shared with his sister would soon diminish and a spark of unhealthy love would set aflame. He was then, at that moment my best friend and we were two, teenage guys in love. Dialogue was something I was told that could be used for this essay; But, why should I share his words if he always hushed mine behind his hand as the other wrapped around my throat tightly just in case any sound were to escape?

     He found that I was strong which is so valuable in people, worth more than diamonds so he sought to destroy me, take advantage. I struggled to drag myself to the tree I used to climb and which held the playground my parents had built for me. I pulled my body up the tree; Gazing down into reality, for once I was indecisive. Should I take my strings, gracefully tie them to the good branch, and then hop off? Or, shall I trudge to the basement, pick up my revolver, and finally be at peace? Whether it be the realization of how selfish humanity is for wanting me to stay or for I wishing to go, I still stayed.
 
     Looking back, I want a thank you. A thank you to confirm that the part of me that died during all of this didn't die in vain. In feeble health I was in all of this. Coming home, under my shirt and pants lied bruises, cuts, and a broken soul; He made that happen. Blue, purple, red, and many other colorations filed over my skin, creating a collage. Art has meaning. What did this mean to me? Long gone is that art he made on my skin, but I salvaged the ones he kept in my brain. Glancing  at the leftover masterpiece once a day, a bit ritualistic in some eyes.

     Don't misinterpret manipulation for love, please. In truth, love isn't some magical thing that saves people. It hurts, it is very much real, it can be faked, and it is but only a combination of chemicals, for that is all that emotions are and the basis is oh-so scientific. No justice has this brought me, no justice do I want; Who am I to choose his fate? Never lose touch with reality and never let another person hold your strings, for it controls everything a person is and has. Never take advantage of someone, don't wait until it's too late to fix things, and always be sincere when it comes to love.