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Coarse Cords & A Crimson Crest

Updated: Mar 20

Sentiments & Affection

Friday, March 17th, 2023

 

I’ve come to the realization that most, if not all, of the people to whom I’ve written letters were not worth it.


They were not worth my time, nor exceptionally my sentiments. No, every year I grow older, I come closer to the understanding my heart must be shielded. The roots of my affection must not be given so easily, especially to those who care for nothing of it other than its use toward their own validation.


A pity, I have so much to give!


Like a bird in a cage, I can feel something in my heart dreaming of freedom. Yet, every time I’ve willingly released it someone has inevitably struck it down. Once it crawls, trembling and terrified, back into its cage and heals over time, it still wishes to be set free. Even despite the agony it sings its lovely little songs, pleading for me to release it once more if only to try to find a single thing that could harmonize with its melodies.


I’ve never understood that.


When will I learn? A thought I find myself thinking more times than I care to admit. I’ve shackled my poor bird’s cage in wrought iron and bound its locks in tempered steel, but no amount of scars, fear, or protection from either seem to break the will of its dreams for flight.


Regardless of my sanguine bird’s wishes or resolve I’ll no longer allow it to mar its spirit for the mere feeling of comfort—something of which people always seem to take more of than they ever care to give.


A tragedy. That iron is only shaping into barbs and that steel into weight. I imagine it’s only a matter of time until its little body is drained of all the blood it has to offer from the punctures, its voice is too coarse to sing from the exhaustion, and its wings are too heavy to soar from the burden.


With every fiber of my Being, I hope they’ve burned those letters. They don’t deserve a fond memory from me. If I could I’d steal my tenderness back from them and save it for someone who might be worth the bare sensation of feeling. If not for someone else, though, I might prove to have gentler hands.


Maybe my own affection is not meant for anyone else but me.


While at one time I may have meant my ardor toward them, that time has long since passed. The memory I have of them has turned to rust as their memory of me should also. To think they bathe in the carcasses of my long-dead emotions toward them haunts me. Like driving a knife through my chest, to think they re-read my letters only when they’re feeling dismal enough to need a self-esteem stimulant is agonizing! Those feelings are but crumbled remnants of the sentiments they, themselves, took for granted!


They have no right to continue squeezing out the passion in my words and feelings then. That zeal should’ve been shed for someone kinder; someone who would’ve been willing to give affection instead of only take it. Someone who might care for others instead of only themselves. Someone who would’ve been worth it.


Do they not see they’re the ones who’ve caned down my dear bird? Do they not see they’re the ones who’ve ripped apart its crimson wings and stripped away its fiery melodies? If they could see the cinders that remained of those letters, perhaps they’d finally cast them back into that petrified pit that may have once been aflame with my genuine feelings.


To Indigo, to Sable, to Hazel, to Ivory, to Golden, and to Jade. If you see this, burn them; their words and your memory of me along with them. For you, they mean nothing.


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