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*A letter sticks out of the assorted pile*
Letters in a Drawer: To the Bridge.
____To the other half of this rickety bridge, the completion of my soul,

___We look at each other. We look at each other, and as if a pre-rehearsed ordeal we speak on things I cannot help but shudder at. We speak on the matter of the floor-level self esteem. You saw me and you assumed my self confidence is high. No, dearest, it was simply too low to be recognized. I lack any will to compliment myself as you see every day we speak. It claws at you, a pained expression. Yes, I notice it. Though I have no sight to see it, I can imagine it well by mimicking it on my own body. the very face you adore to praise, contorted in dis-contempt.

___Perhaps the same is said in equal when you shove off my regards as my lo....hmmm, my illumination among-st the bitter dark. Not in such magnitude as I do, but in small shrugs that hurt. I see the hurt as something that you try to show me.

___I am learning to be the support on my end as you do the same. In hopes that one day, we can mend each other's tattered portions. I may have a few that wont stay closed, but in hopes of making a stronger walkway for our futures, I will look past them and cover them up accordingly.


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