You pruned away what of me touched the light, then chided me for hiding in the dark which choked me, smothered me from sight of everything I longed for. Lark,
your silence was my hell. I never knew how I should please you. Everything I gave – my life, my blood, my words – did not appease you. I could never fill the emptiness you craved.
The second-sweetest thing I ever learned was that I’d never be what you desired – and that I was my own. The growing lack between us gave me wings, and though I burned I flew beyond our crumbling bridges' pyres, swearing this: I'll take me back.
There was an opposites contest going on recently, for which one was to pick a piece one had made previously and then create its opposite, and which I missed entirely. This is what I would have written for it if I had entered.