Your Letter

“I know you don’t want to write this, but,” and here she shrugs, “write something meaningful and patriotic. Some shit like that.” Now I sit here, in front of this glowing computer screen, writing my first introductory sentence with a superficial catchy twist and cliché that will add to the sentimental approach I know she wants. Yet after every attempt, I erase everything that I have, because I can’t get my heart to stop racing. I’ve caught my breath, but the images still run through my head.

It is not so simple to put into words what has haunted me for years. Years of therapy are undone by this one combination of circumstances. I know by the time this is printed I will have been up on that stage, my face tight with anxiety, my smile held steady with rage, their faces, filled with pride, a pride in what they did nothing to accomplish, beaming at me.

I look to the bed beside me; he lies there so peacefully, the years he is melted away into the fabrics, perfectly sculpted smooth. He lets his hand rest on my beaded forehead, whispering sweet, soft mummers into my ear, the calm of his voice pulling me back to his waiting embrace. It is almost as if this was normal, as if usually people awoke from nightmares and needed a heartbeat rock them back to sleep.

He is my savior, the faultless coating to my world. And he knows that I am broken, a mere item he could easily throw away, and I would let him. I am not always easy. Relationships aren’t easy, he always says to me when I am overcome with my own self-consciousness and doubt. His hand on my hips keeps me anchored in some sort of normalcy, sanity.

As he wakes, he looks at me with questioning eyes and beckons me back to bed; I will go, in just a second. I will not write what you want me to write. I will not write your lies.