A Spam Book

A Letter to Those Who Have (Writing/Poems)

A poem and two letters that will never be read. (Two belong to characters of mine; Zodiac or otherwise. Take a guess!)

-x-x-x-

List

I can count on one hand the number of times people have asked me to die.

The f̶i̶r̶s̶t̶ l̶a̶s̶t̶ time I could not breathe because of you.
Kneeling upon the ground, cold hard tile like shards of glass into my knees.
Your voice was cold, cold, brittle ice. Cracked fragments of glass cutting my throat open,
so I couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe.

You were a shattered glass knife; broken but twice as dangerous.
Your voice cut me, fragmenting, leaving shards deep, deep inside.
Planting a seedling of h̶o̶p̶e̶ d̶e̶s̶p̶a̶i̶r̶ something, watered by your hateful, spiteful murmuring
and those words: "Don't ever tell us again. I'd rather you kill each other if you must."

So I went on with life. We pretended everything is okay;
a facade for me, for them, for everyone. But you can't hide the hatred in
his voice, the arrogant whisper in hers. The burning, blinded rage in his
eyes and I keep on smiling.

Pressure cinches around my throat. Hard bone grinds down, crushing my throat.
I couldn't breathe, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't breathe.
The sting of your palm meets my shoulder, the side of my head. Bone cracks against bone.
You twist my arm and I feel my bones click, and oh my –

– such a look doesn't belong on a child.
"Are you trying to kill me?"
"Yes," yes, "Yes, I will. I will kill you" one day.
I laugh, hollow. "I'll be looking forward to it."

I can count on t̶w̶o̶ three fingers the number of times p̶e̶o̶p̶l̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶a̶s̶k̶e̶d̶ ̶m̶e̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶d̶i̶e̶ someone wanted me to die.

-x-x-x-

A Letter He Cannot Read

The first time I met you, you were nothing but a name floating on the wind.

You were just a faceless name. It was an easy choice, then.

It wasn't like I had a choice, then.

With each step I took, I could feel heavy shackles chaining me to the ground. They dragged soundlessly, weightlessly; but I could feel them. Sometimes, I felt as I could walk no further. Their claws dug deep into my flesh, hooking on to that beating heart inside me and never letting go. And I never will; because at this point you're not just a faceless name.

You're a voice, a face, a smile. You're someone who smiled at me, welcomed me, when others turned. And I hate how easily you welcomed me. It would've been easier if you all hated me, glared at me with the scorn and disdain I deserve. It would've been easier for me; and it's selfish, I know. But what I've been told to do – what I must do... it's even more selfish. It's all for me and me only, and it was so very easy to make that choice when you were not there, when you were a nobody.

I see you from the corner of my eye. The awkward smiles you share with your friends, the kind words you speak. The kind words you share with me, someone you hardly know. And it should make it all the more easy for me. But it only strengthens the claws buried so deep inside me, sharpening them, puncturing my lungs and making it so I can't breathe.

But it's easy enough to hide something like that. (Sometimes, I wish I don't have to. I wish I can just speak and somehow, by some miracle, they'll be alright.) But I know they're watching. Their beady, vulture eyes are always watching. They're always following us, even in the dead of the night, when the crickets chir and the air is still.

My shackles grow heavier by the minute. I wish I can look away and forget you, forget everything. But I'm trapped in the glass prison of my own hourglass, and the sand trickling out from under my feet will be gone soon; but I'm selfish (I know it, I hate it) and I'm sorry.

-x-x-x-

Two Birds on a Wire

I'm not brave.

I am a coward. I pretend not to hear the whispered insults: a prick, an arrogant snob... I pretend because I can't bear to face them. And moreso when I bury my face into the pillows and quietly, quietly cry, because I don't want them to see me weak even though I am (and they already know it).

I wish I could be more like him. The dashing figure in the mask wreathed by flame and feathers; he is everything a man could hope to be. He does not cower in the face of danger and he is loved by many. They gaze upon him in admiration and do not whisper insults; their breaths are taken away by his performance. Those who do wrong fear him and those who are just applaud.

But I am not him. I'm just a lowly, cowardly boy who is scorned by those who meet him. I'm an arrogant prick (i̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶o̶n̶l̶y̶ ̶b̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ ̶I̶ ̶g̶e̶t̶ ̶e̶x̶c̶i̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶b̶u̶t̶). I study because books do not scorn you and stare at my closed door because people won't come in. People can't insult you if they do not see you.

I stare at the glassy, pristine surface of the mask. It reflects my pitiful face in black and white.

I wish I could be more like the man in the mask. (At least he does not fear death and the words of people who don't concern him.)