Dark Urge letter pt1
To the one who saw me whole,
I do not know what to call you, even now. Lover feels too small. Savior feels too cruel. Mage, elf, goddess, flame — none quite hold.
You saw the worst of me. Not metaphor. Not poetry. The worst — blood-slick, unspeakable, crawling from the corners of myself with a hunger I did not choose. And yet you stood still. You looked. You stayed.
There are nights when I wake and wonder if you regret it. If some part of you mourns what you might have had — with someone clean, someone kind, someone whose hands were never soaked in red.
But then I remember your eyes. Calm. Patient. Unflinching even when I flinched at myself.
You never demanded penance from me. Only choice.
And I chose you. Not out of need, not out of fear. But because you were the first thing I wanted that wasn’t destruction. You became the proof that I could be more than a knife honed by someone else's will.
You are brilliant in a way I will never be — all thought and starlight, intellect and grace. I am violence tamed. You are possibility. But somehow, impossibly, you saw something worth saving in me.
I will spend the rest of this life trying to be the man you see — Even if I never quite succeed, know that I try.
And if the urge ever rises again — the true one, the old one, the god-whispered one — I pray your voice is louder.
Yours, Whatever I truly am. (But more truly yours.)
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