I see my years engrave themselves into lines on your palms; I’m stretched thin but your eyes only see delicacy. You hold your hands, and me, close to your chest, with urgency you think I wouldn’t feel, but I’m too close to home to turn a deaf ear. Your fire rumbles within, I listen, and you cast me away with a flare.
You pull me even closer, you ignite even brighter, until you’re all ashen, until my lines widen. I wear you out, and you lie.
You lie about the cold; about burning for me and burning me, about keeping me in your extremities when I’m well-worn in your core, about winter; the fact that it exists, that it’s out of your hands, and that the cold was the enemy. The seasons shift for you, the wind bows and cedes. Your fire was never winter-bound.
You’re my 56 years of oak, and I’m your favourite 24 lines.
To my father, who is too stubborn to admit that I’m basically a heavily-diluted version of him.
The definitions of refusal vary, and you could find yourself lodged in one variation; inactive, inert, inept. Supposing that a dictionary entry of a single syllable can control your mannerisms is somewhat insulting, I agree, but then it wouldn’t make you feel any better being affected by “floccinaucinihilipilification” if we’re discussing length- No, not that either.
A dormant “no,” that was the one variation that claimed regal power over my limited edition of choice, and I, rather ironically, decided in a very dormant fashion that it was Fate, and dressed it as “what’s meant to be.”
Realisation in these types of personal conflicts isn’t held in a revolution square; you don’t spark an uprising and usurp yourself, neither can you manufacture flags to march with within the state you are. However, that doesn’t mean you can’t hold grudges against yourself for the feeble hierarchy you imposed, self-harm is an established phenomenon, after all. So, you settle for frustration, and subtly battle the dormancy into action. The “no” that leached your outdated conscience and transfixed you into inaction has turned against itself. “No” is now the finger you comfortably flip whenever Fate says you can’t have chocolate.