The Confidant written by Trevaris Anderson at

The Confidant

The Confidant

written by: Trevaris Anderson


“Breathe in.”
She grimaced.
“Breathe out,”
And the tears began.

I was her confidant. Her first tear fell from her right eye—mine from my left.
And I could not but watch the slow bend and snap and shatter of her porcelain mien.
“Don’t bite. The hand. That feeds. You. Dear,” she’d say to me—he’d say to her, in not so gentle a way.
At times, she caught me mouthing her words back to her—my face filled with so a dissension she could feel the tension.
And so, she never looked me in the eyes as she stood before me, combing her hair. And I, before her, combing my hair. And we, before each other, speechless and evading—a bonding of sorts.

“I’m sorry.”
“Please, forgive me.”
“It was all my fault.”
“I’ll never do it again.”

I hated the way she apologized for everything. She’d stand up from the sink with a quick stutter-step to a near stumble and wince. “I’m sorry.” There was no one around. It was reflex.
And when she cried, it was reflex. And when she scratched the skin from her thumb and bled, it was reflex. Even when she smiled, it was reflex, though a show she knew I could see through.
And so, I always approached her from the front so as to not frighten her,
Always searching for a trace of anything willful like that one sly grin she has—delicate, but brave as though it crawled from the depths of her soul, triumphant so and glowing.
I was her confidant. And yet, whenever the plum watercolor of her bruises peaked from beyond the hem of her shorts, she’d abandon me. And our conversation. Alone. And in the dark.

“It’s okay, gorgeous. It’s okay.”
“Just. Shhhhh.”

“How is it that I am always lost? I feel as would a guest in my own body, but I do suppose that it is mine to call my own.”
“It’s silly, I know, to feel peculiar so within my own skin, but if not the puzzled or the scared or the distracted girl observing me in the mirror, then who might I be?”
“She never seems as sad as I am. Too plain of face is she for all the many scars I pile within. Too much shine has she in the eyes. Too much warmth. Too few bruises.”
“I’m not truly as beautiful as she is. And now he’s gone. And I’ve begun to realize how little the sound of my voice is like that of my thoughts. I feel so stupid.”
I was her confidant. But she never recognized me. To her, I was always on the outside looking in, but I knew exactly who she was.

Heartbeat—beat. Pause.
Heartbeat—beat. Pause.
The broken silence at
The quiet of her fragile weeping.

The worse it was, the less she spoke.
She’d just sit by my side, combing her hair. And I, combing my hair. Because I was her confidant.
“There’s nothing to see here,” she’d say, trembling from not a cold breeze. But rather reflex.
And so, we cried together in so dark a room which painted everything black and blue alike.
She, hiding herself from me. I, hiding myself from her. The feeling was mutual.

“Touch me, Love,
So that I may know the limits of my skin.
So that I may know where I end and you begin.
So that I may be felt. It is because you are that I am.”

I was losing her.
The one time she did gaze upon my black eyes and saw me, she threw her fist into the flat of my cold face and shattered me into a hundred shards of her looking back at herself.
Blood running down her hand and my many faces, trickling into the sink. The stamp of her crimson thumbprint on her hairbrush, the shortest poem she ever wrote.
And then, she fell to the floor. For she felt like him. And I stayed with her.
Because I was her confidant.

Trevaris Anderson

Trevaris Anderson

I'm Trevaris Anderson.
I seek to make poetry of real life, in order to better understand myself and my place in the world.
I believe that we are all connected and valuable, and our perspectives are important, if communicated through a lens of empathy.
My goal is to promote a sincerity and transparency in my writing that reduces friction in translating my thoughts from me to you.
And so, I strive to understand and articulate the spectrum of lives and emotions shared among all of us.
I write of love as though all love is "true love." I write of insecurity and passion. Confusion. Excitement. Etc.
And in the end, I simply wish to say that I made a difference—that I was there when I was needed.
Trevaris Anderson

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