I remember you, so fragile and tortured was your very essence.
I saw in your eyes - the most beautiful eyes I've ever encountered in my short life - an accidental scream for help. A reflection of my own trauma, amplified tenfold.
You were me, you were not myself, almost an opposite and yet a tremendous exaggeration - infinitely more beautiful, intelligent, victimized. Scared.
I saw fear, or rather I sensed it through the noninterpretable things I did see. I thought that if I could help you, I'd somehow inevitably and permanently be helped. And then I could help everyone else in the world.
I wanted to reach out and pull you close to me, nurture you and see that soul-twisting smile of yours - so warm; so genuine; so rare.You'd be new, and yet the same. You'd touch people and they'd feel the serpents of hate and monotony relinquish constriction around their souls. A modern-day saint.
Maybe it's good that you're not real. Maybe no innocent should harbor such terror and self-loathing. But then, who will save us?
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