I wasted my allotment of tears when I was young

Today, someone I used to love contacted me.  This is what she said:

If I could take back the bad things, I would. It must have taken a lot to contact me that last time, and all I did was slap you in the face. For that, I'm sorry. It came to mind recently, and I took a good look at it. I've wanted to apologize since.

I cared for you very much, and apparently care a bit still, enough to put this out there. If I don't, it will sit in my heart as unfinished business, and I'm clearing up all unfinished business, time to let it all go. You probably won't even read this, but I will be content not knowing, either way. You were wonderful (...most of the time), and I'm really glad we crossed paths, even though it ended badly.

I wish you the best.
That's the last you'll hear from me, I won't intrude again, promise. Take care Timothy.

There are so few people who call me Timothy.

When I was young, I had a parakeet.  His name was Jack.

Jack wasn't very nice.  In fact, he was mean.  I loved Jack.  I fed him, I cleaned his cage, I petted him, and I wanted him to love me.  He was miserable.  Everytime I put my hand into his cage, he pecked me.  He sulked and he died.  I cried when Jack died.  I didn't cry when Patches (the first dog I remember) died, I didn't cry when my family had to give Sterling (the second dog I remember) away, and I didn't cry when Rosie (the best dog ever) died.  I cried when Jack died because I wanted him to love me.

My first girlfriend's name was Christine Payette.  We met at Cortland Summer Bible Camp, where we were both counselors.  She couldn't throw a frisbee worth a damn, and had no idea that the Perseids meteor shower happened in August. 

After we started dating, and after she made me wash my "fire shirt," I found out that her father had died when she was younger, that her mother was semi-catatonic and that her brother Arthur was breaking everything of her father's that he could find.  I thought I could fix her.  I thought that I could save her. What a jerk.




In Stephen Erickson's fantasy cycle, A Tale of The Malazan Book of the Fallen (of which there are 9 published and 1 forthcoming), he has a recurring role for certain worshipers of the disparate gods in his pantheon called Shield Anvil.  The Shield Anvil takes on the mortal pain of those whom he loves as well as those he despises.  Before having a name for what I was doing, I was trying to be a Shield Anvil.  Because I wanted to take on, and fix, the pain of those people/things I love.
 

my jaw is broken and my teeth are crooked
and every word i speak is malformed
syllables hunching like vultures which only eat themselves
but i bleed ink when i think of you
you asked me to say something to prove myself
i washed dishes instead
because my fingers can better display
the nimble fairies of my heart
than my choked throat
which can do nothing more than breathe
i would take it all back
every action and every word and every little thing
if you would agree to love me again
or, if you haven't loved me up until now,
if you would agree to start.