Writing

part one million

Dear my first love,

I always toyed with the idea of writing you a letter. Two years after everything happened, I would find myself consumed by the thought of you and without realising, I began walking around your block. Late at night, when I was sure that everyone was holed up in their rooms and I'd think about what I should say to you. Rarely, if the mood was potent, I would put pen to paper. In the end there were so many things to say and with my fingers stiff from the evening air, I would give up. I never knew exactly where to start.

Do you recall seeing the world through childlike eyes? Long before reality's poisoned grip reached your small body, when the idea of who you'd become was an optimistic future and you hadn't yet developed the awareness that stripped you of your stability. I recall speaking with my mother. Sitting at the kitchen table, I told her that I could have been born attracted to girls and basking in their radiance would have been a birthright. I craved their warmth and love, their gentle lips and budding maturity, their shiny hair and, most of all, the careful manner in which they handled the world. The colours that painted all life forms created in Her image. I was waiting for a notice, a sign that I was one of the few who worshipped these beings but my experiences never reflected those around me. I resigned. In the years since, I have taken an interest in the recipients of these notices. Most of my interviewees have been men and they all shared the same story. It may be telling of the boyish nature and learned behaviour which plagues the mind of half our population but their dreams became their sign. Visions of intimate moments, shared with their best friend. I was frightened by sex when we met. I did not have a single sexual thought about you. I did not have many thoughts about you, beyond the fact that you were beautiful. You had honey streaks through your hair and whisky eyes. I wanted to be close to you, but in a way that didn't feel like I was appropriating a language I didn't speak.

My sign came in the form of truth or dare. Only the two of us participated as we sat just outside the orbit of our friend group. We were acquainted but not yet familiar with one another. To you, I was the girl who returned to the group after a break-up and to me, you were my best friend's ex. Still in the unsteady tides of adolescence, our shyness implored us to avoid the intrusive nature of the game, instead reading off of a list with impersonal questions. We took turns reading them aloud.
Unfortunately, I have not been faithful to the memory of you and it pains me to admit that I carelessly forgot the events that followed. The questions asked and the line said, prompting your reaction, have been lost to time. I remember, however, a rosy hue rising in your cheeks as you pressed your lips together, desperately trying to avoid my gaze although we sat knee to knee on the concrete. You spoke without opening your mouth and expressed a sentiment I didn't know I shared. I became overwhelmed by your admiration and with the joy that only a thirteen year old could express freely, I held you tight. You were eight inches shorter than me and you fit perfectly. Pressed against my chest, I completely forgot to tell you how I felt. We spoke that evening and without saying the words, we knew we were now wed.

Messages from Skype, August 2017 have since been lost.

Our time spent together was limited to our permitted breaks and however many hours of daylight that were left in the afternoon. We would meet out front and converse with the others until we were the last ones left. We explored the nature reserve for a time but as the afternoon drew to a close, we always ended up at the playground near your house. I have visited this playground a few times during different stages of my life but my recent visits have been underwhelming. The world seemed so much bigger when I had you by my side, closing the distance between you and I to avoid the night air. I always left with a weary ghost nipping at my heels. I would be remiss if I didn't mention your twin. The two of you had been inseparable for so long that it became hard to conceive of an evening spent without them in sight. Because of this, we weren't frequently afforded time alone. This irritated the both of us occasionally, however, I'm grateful regardless as the few moments we stole for ourselves became all the more sweet.
I have lost the minute details of our love, both throughout the early days and in between major events. If I were more thoughtful, I would have suspended the image of our youth in amber, adhered to my chest to be carried with me forever. The lovers and friends who followed after you never understood why I couldn't let go. If only they could see that the thought of losing your memory is as painful as tearing flesh from bone in an attempt to remove your parasite.

You were my first Valentine and the sentiment remained regardless of the fact that it was simply another Wednesday. We arrived early, 20 minutes before the bell rang, and you revealed your gift to me. From the depths of your bag you retrieved two items:
A long scarf, carefully hand knitted by yourself. The colour and style have faded from my memory but the warmth from your kindness remains to this day. During my final days of college, catching a glimpse of you on the bus, a needle in each hand, reminded me of the time and effort you dedicated to the piece.

Scarf created as a gift for Valentine's Day 2018 has since been lost.

A necklace, also crafted by yourself. It was a simple chain, albeit slightly rusted. You had compiled a collection of bronze gears and an ornate key, stuck together with (what appeared to be) hot glue to create the pendant. It was more your style than mine but I looked forward to displaying your craftsmanship around my neck. The pendant began falling apart later that day. You were heartbroken and I assured you that I would fix it. I never did.

Necklace created as a gift for Valentine's Day 2018 has since completely fallen apart. Pieces have been lost. What remains resides in the black jewellery box on my desk.

I believe I gifted you something in return, however I have no recollection of what that might have been. It was likely discarded years later. Whatever it was, I hope it's still in your possession.

Your body made me nervous. Thoughts of intimacy often led to panic and I was cautious of a world I had never stepped foot in. I ascribed a label to this illness and took comfort in the exemptions it provided. You were aware of this yet I hate to think of how oblivious I was to the innate sexuality that bloomed during our time together. I know now that I will never receive the same patience that you provided me, once my purity was exploited, an invitation to my touch was written into the contract. Without you, I was forced to leave behind my naivete, but during this time my affections were in the shiny stains along your cheekbone. We contorted ourselves into tight embraces, and absorbed one another's skin.
The fear escaped one time when we witnessed, what could have been, the first kiss of the group. Another member of the group was the catalyst as you, me, your twin and their partner at the time took refuge from the afternoon's passing in the nature reserve. Someone, long before our story began, took planks to the midway point of an old tree and created the landing point where we sat. Our conversation quickly turned sour as the friend grew bored and decided they wanted to watch the couple kiss to lift their spirit. This statement was not out of childlike curiosity as any outsider may assume, but instead, was telling of a deeply disturbed and voyeuristic person. I began to sweat. In this moment, the nausea and panic overtook me and through my jumbled mind, I pulled together enough words to plead for a change in topic. I will never know what occurred in the few seconds I turned away. Either way, you and I escaped, holding hands as we walked over the dam and down the path towards your house. The warts between your fingers became a texture sewn deep in my mind as a sign of comfort. A sign of you.
This situation brought up a topic I was afraid to broach. We had discussed the thought in the past, over messages, where our teasing remarks could avoid any consequence. However, dwelling in the back of your mind, was a plan. You were my first kiss. With your twin and their partner (the one I did music with) by your side, you stood on the gravel at the corner of your street, rose to my height and placed a quick peck to my lips. I was bewildered but returned the favour. Not yet accustomed to this new form of contact, I felt my movement was clumsy and embarrassment formed a pit in my stomach. As I made the walk back to my house, I was unable to forget the sensation you left. A warmth so pronounced that I couldn't help but run a finger across my mouth, trying to locate the source.
I was not brave enough to kiss you again. You were hurt the moment you noticed the change in my demeanour as I shifted my feet and lowered my gaze. You assumed it had been you at fault, meanwhile, I was putting myself on trial. A fleeting kiss would not be exchanged between the two of us for a few months. You later had said you were concerned I was not ready. I was beating myself up.
Your twin changed affections in this time and was now spending their evenings at the home of a boy who frequented our neighbouring group. This afforded us more privacy than we knew what to do with. Our evenings were spent retiring from our studies and making our way to the park near your house where we talked for hours. Every night, I would walk you home and on the doorstep to your house we would share five painful seconds of closeness, of opportunity and I would waste it. Masochism took up my final hours of consciousness as I revelled in my own cowardice until I fell asleep. My dreams worked against me. I was incredibly good at waking up my mind during my sleep and so I replaced all my dreams with dreams about you. I conjured up your image and enacted the scenarios I could never bring to fruition in the waking world. I relentlessly researched the proper techniques and practices of an intrinsically human display of affection. I convinced myself that the awkwardness in which we had stumbled into one another was more a personal fault than a natural experience of one's youth. A failed second attempt took place in the same location our story began, feeding the pit further. Words fail to describe the crushing sensation that was missing an opportunity to kiss you. It consumed my entire being and I spent the better part of our time together under its fog. Trying again would have killed me. The pit became more of a black hole. My friends, aware of the pain I caused myself, saved me from being swallowed whole. Sitting on a mound outside the mall, my best friend and her girlfriend proposed yet another game of truth or dare. They hadn't included me in their plan and when they gave me my dare, I froze. I was on my knees, with you standing above me. I considered protesting, opening and closing my mouth before looking up at you. In one look, I offered for the hard part, the part that had been silently digging my grave over these past few months, to become yours. You accepted it with grace and broke the curse that haunted me by pressing your lips to mine.

We were now free to revel in each other's affections, spending afternoons in my bedroom while my mother was at work. I left bite marks along your collarbones and traced a finger across the scar on your back. Heart surgery performed while you were still an infant. You would tell me stories of the practices your friends enjoyed in explicit detail. Friends far away, from different schools, in different continents. The things you told me felt so foreign that I quickly brushed off their experiences as mere fiction. It took me a few years to realise that maybe you were trying to tell me something you were too afraid to admit outright.
I wish I could have shared my first time with you.

Being with you forced me to develop a sharp tongue and leather skin. It's easier to submit yourself to an echo chamber than it is to recognise the cruelty I endured. I learned that being open about my love for you made me a target. I was unable to enter the school gates without opening myself up to anger and hateful comments, all intended to inspire shame. I believed only in the power that you held and each day, I let the degradation wash over me. One second with you made it all worth it. No one quite knew what to do with our love. We had words thrown at our feet and oftentimes, our antagonists used names that weren't even intended for us. We laughed, “I don't think you know what that means” I would remark. One time, as we entered the gymnasium, you swung around and yelled back. In that moment, I realised that you let the brutality wash over you too. For me.

We did not argue frequently. There were only a few conversations where our words became sharp and blood was drawn. You had an aversion to conflict of any nature which became our downfall later down the line. There was one time where I grew irate and ashamedly aimed this tension at your twin and their boyfriend. They were fading from the group opting to reside on the outskirts, curled into one another's affections. This affected you deeply, seeing your sibling less and less as they never had enough time for you. I spoke the words you weren't going to say. I aimed an arrow in their direction and released, letting off a single comment that never made it through their defences. You snapped at me and I withdrew, hiding away in a corner of the outside terrace far from the group and began to sob. Your anger wasn't something I was used to so I held myself tight on the ground, swallowed by self pity. I stayed there for maybe 5 minutes before I felt your presence. The rough texture of your hand wrapped around my forearm and the sensation of your cracked lips on my forehead. You waved your white flag.
We were perfect, I had not yet developed the habit of keeping tabs on what hurts those around me. I selfishly wonder if we experience the same pain now, the same self hatred directly after opening our mouths to unleash the parasite of words carefully crafted to burrow into our target's mind. You already knew how to hurt me. In my naivete, I believed that our future was already built and you tore it down with ease. I just wasn't your type. You would say that when in a dark place, you took comfort in imagining your future. A perfect future with a beautiful house, cats, a collection of odd mugs, no responsibilities and a loving ‘butch' wife. I stood there in my skirt, thigh high stockings and a fool's red lipstick painted on my face. That word stuck with me.
I wasn't what you wanted and I didn't know how to change.

More time was spent at my house than yours. I've never been sure as to why but because of this, the two or three times I ventured beyond the doorstep of your mother's house, with the dead tree and unruly mint bush out front, stick out in my mind. I've heard rumours that you have since moved from this house. My efforts to write to you have therefore been in vain.

We shared an interest in music. I enjoyed singing and playing piano and you owned an acoustic bass. To this day, I have never had the privilege of spotting another. You were more skilled than me in anything I took interest in however, whether it be art, writing or instrumentation, and you would perform for me. You sang Kimya Dawson years before I discovered her myself and I still cannot listen to In My Mind by Amanda Palmer without being flooded with memories of your raw, raspy vocals. That evening you had posted onto your story with the words, “Can you be in love with someone's voice?”. I saved this and when I needed a mirror, I would simply gaze into my reflection through you.

Aforementioned screenshot has since been lost.

I only remember bits and pieces about your family. I know that your mother and your father had separated, you had a step mother and a younger half sister. I named myself after her, you know. The look you gave me on your final day of school, a year after mine, as your sister ran to embrace me has seared itself into the back of my mind as a look of pure hatred. I get ahead of myself. I adored your sister, about seven years in age, she shared the same long blonde hair you and your twin were graced with. She adored me as well and when I came to visit, she always acted as if I was the highlight of her day. Once, she had come down with a stomach bug, her small frame curled up on the couch with a bucket almost the size of her as she watched Moana. You and I, alongside your twin and potentially another, became entranced by the television and sat on the floor to watch alongside her. After noting our presence, she immediately called me over to sit next to her on the couch. She rested her head on my chest and I combed my fingers through her hair for the rest of the movie.

While writing this, I discovered that your father has had another child. Congratulations.

Towards the very end of our relationship, when the weather began to warm, you invited me to come visit your grandparents house for a celebration. Although I don't recall the celebration explicitly, it was clearly important to your family as we were greeted by near fifteen members all cheerful and ready to welcome me as a new addition. We ate dinner on the deck overlooking the garden, air filled with conversation and the citrus scent of mosquito repellant. Your grandfather was purging old clothes and there was one top that had caught the eye of all three of us. A red button up with small, milk coloured roses making up the pattern. I became so excited that you and your twin conceded and allowed me to take the piece home.

Aforementioned red button up stays in my possession after being lent to multiple boyfriends over the years. I am looking at it while writing this.

We played a game involving writing, something I took pride in. It may have been the bias of the judges, one of which was your sister, but I was granted victory. She ran up and placed a sticker on the back of my right hand.

Holographic rocket sticker was placed on my windowsill. The adhesive has tangled itself into the wood. It is impossible to remove.

Before the night was over, you left me a memory I could never free myself from. You had pulled me out of the room after the prizes were dealt, claiming you had something to show me. After walking down the hallway near the front door, you grabbed my wrist and pulled me into a darkened room. Before I could think, I was pinned against the wall and your mouth was on mine, hands venturing under my shirt. It's hard to express the hunger and desperation all condensed into this one act but after experiencing the purest form of desire, all other experiences paled in comparison.
And just like that, it was over. As abrupt as it began. We were in the car to go back home.
We spent a few evenings at your father's house. One where you showed me Rupaul's Drag Race, one on New Year's Eve where we spent time at the park nearby, one where we sat in the spare room and played with all of your childhood toys and one where I held you as you cried. Another one of your fathers rageful fits. You had a trampoline out front and a loft bed for both you and your twin in your shared bedroom.
I no longer recall the suburb in which your father resided.

Towards the end of the year, I had been accepted into a program to complete my final year of highschool at the neighbouring college and from that point our future became hazy.
It was summer when we finally parted ways. I deliberated and ached over the decision that would change the future for the both of us. In the end, I confided in your best friend and she called you over to me. I hadn't gotten the time to think and when I finally said it, I hugged my knees and cried. You held me the whole way through and I didn't have the heart to tell you I couldn't take your kindness. I shouldn't have been crying. You may have cried when you went home that night but I never knew for sure. I told you it was because we were too different, we had grown apart. I told myself it was because you were planning on going to a different college (you ended up attending the same one as me). Some part of me, deep down, knew that I just didn't like your new haircut. I still have the photos from our final outing together. A picture of you standing on the round-about, built in celebration of pride. I revisit the photo from time to time. Your hair suited you.
We broke up in December 2018, my final week of highschool and the day before our 18 month anniversary.

Aforementioned photo resides in a pink miniature photo album on my bookshelf. I haven't looked at it in a long time.

Even after our breakup, you still gave me a Christmas gift. I hadn't gotten you anything. Handed to me was a broach in the shape of a cat and a perfume. A familiar scent to me, the bittersweet scent of you.

Both the broach and the perfume from Christmas 2018 are still in my possession. The perfume was recently collected from the bathroom of my most recent ex boyfriend.

We were not yet strangers as this section details the kindest parts of our story. The darker parts, the reason why we are no longer in contact, the reason why you ostracised your friends for their association to me, becomes intertwined with my experience with a third party. The twin's boyfriend and the loss of all things good and pure that once resided in me.