Pygmalion

It is so hard. 
This is what I want to tell you. 
But you know that. 
That is what scared you. 
Your fear immobilised me. 
But now, it's different. 
And you know that. 
So instead, I want to show you how well I am doing, in spite of it all. 

My head's high. 
I walk straight and tall. 
The wind blows my red hair wild. 
I smile easily. 
Strangers jump to help me. 
Kindness envelopes me wherever I go. 
Laughter follows. 
This is the narrative I want you to know. 

But this too you know. 

I do not unravel anymore. 
There is no falling apart. 
After you, I put myself together. 
I did it so well, there are zero cracks. 
Not even old music can penetrate the inviolable fortress I am. 
The soft, lilting melodies blow in heavy as if they were carrying rain. 
I hear them. 
I feel their moistness even. 
But I no longer sink in the dampness. 
I no longer cry. 
This is why I no longer need to talk. 

You know this too. 
That's why you never listen to those songs. 
You have moved on. 
I know this as if you told me all this a hundred times just last night. 
Saying things is so redundant. 
So obviously we have nothing to talk about. 
We know. 
I know all the unspeakable, indefinable truths about you. 
I used to be afraid of this knowledge. 
My fear led you to flee. 
Or was it my acceptance? 
It doesn't matter. 
I know that too. 
So do you. 
I know how you walk still, the way you apply sunscreen so meticulously, that quick narrowing of your eyes in temper, the way you laugh. 

I can conjure you up. 
I created you. 
What else is there to say? 
They say you are a piece of work. 
But you are my best work. 
And it's been so hard. So so hard. 
This is what I want to tell you. 
Admire your maker. 
This is the plea I carry in my heart. 
For you. 
But you know this. 
And so I know you will deny me. 
Forever. 
For a second. 
We are but one - you and I.