The first letter

(Happy pride month, here’s to my fear and to the lost chances and to everything else in between.)

There is no fear in love, just its consequence.

Not hurt, not inner conflicts,

but the lines which tether you to the bottom of endless possibilities.

It was the chance to be had that’s struck with a knife by turmoil,

unforgiving even to the most faithful to God.

I look like you, and you look like me,

I write the songs and you sing them back,

you place the lines, I colored between,

and it was a whole world of wrong.

Apologies could not fix the bitterness in my throat.

The anchor, tightly secured,

ensuring that no one will find the rot that rests in my core.

It’s the greatest treason in honor of safety.

Acceptance which I could not have.

Love which could not be reciprocated without the lingering eyes of a thousand saints.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry

it is my cowardice.