I’m sorry I pushed you harder and further than you were ready for. Your vulnerability, and honesty was met with harshness. And later, insecurity, emptiness, and pain. Your dancing has dissipated, your despair ever present.
Instead of protecting you and treating you like the fierce violet feather that you are, I assumed a more passive role letting the world take you on and forgetting to advocate for you. I took you for granted. You were and are more delicate than a bud in the springtime. In bloom you are growing and need more nourishment, than I could supply. Hastily I threw you into the arms of another without a second thought: Were they better or worse for you than I was? These realizations, far too late cannot make up for the way you took scars, swallowed smoke, coughed down self-medicated injustice and toxins.
I only have one of you, yet I treat you as dispensable, second-hand – comme des ordures .