I do not like to describe inspiration as something akin to romance. Romance can be a source of inspiration, but they are not one in the same. A yellow carnation cannot compensate for sunshine.

 

His hair reminded me of yellow carnations; perhaps I’m still romanticizing things. He used to bemoan every haircut. A joke, a shy complaint, and a mirrored reflection sent over the phone. I thought it was cute, and he thought the same of me.

 

Our conversations were gentle at first, with a dreamy feeling one gets when staring into a cloudless summer sky. It was similar to how one feels creating a home, plastering new wallpaper with the wind whistling through the mesh of open windows and tickled curtains. A honeymoon, though we were much too young.

 

It is within the chirping conversations of first love

that the inspiration to smile a little wider is found.

 

 

His tenderness did not last, though. The gilded charm that once entranced me corroded with this façade. Pleasant chats about summer gardens and pop culture contorted into romantic advances, despite me being uninterested. It turns out he never was truly listening.

 

From conversation came impromptu therapy sessions with me always behind the clipboard. I carried the weight of his sufferings, his insecurities, and his grief. Some days I would not respond out of fear, and the response always came back the same: “please, I’m crying right now. You’re my friend, right? I need you.”

 

 

It is within the webbed glass of the irises and drowning lungs

that the inspiration to help is found.

 

 

His grievances took shape, a grey vale of pessimism graced by a stagnant brook littered with unturned stones. He wallowed in his own murky misery, letting the grime of sadness filter through his body and trusting me to save him daily. I’m unsure of what he truly expected; whenever I tried to mend his wounds, he’d just end up pulling the stitches out and demand I do it again. Golden spools of compassion and optimism decayed into muddy ropes, too thick to thread for both him and myself.

 

A novocaine-laden syringe numbed the brain from syllables of arsenic, yet my fingers still throbbed as I accepted the apology through brine and spit. My eyes yellowed with each dosage as I became his addict. I did not want to believe he would say such toxic things. He was just mad, I always said through the skin of stained teeth, he needed to blow off some steam. His steam was mustard gas, and I was choking on that sour smoke.

 

Never before in my life had I related to a scarecrow so much. Created in one’s eyes to stand guard eternally, watching seasons wax and wane under their astral ancestors, never wanting nor needing, only to be torn to flaxen straw if one crop is damaged by some force unknown to me. My time was consumed in his negativities, seams snipped to desperately provide, insulted, yelled at, belittled. It was then that a spark has ignited in my chest: his life is not yours.

 

“I’m so so sorry. …You’re still my friend, right?”

“No.”

 

 

It is within the strength to walk away

that the inspiration to heal - and to live - is found.