At the very least, I can talk in my languages.

I do not command them; they command me. They lend me what little of their power they think I can wield, and allow me a modicum of freedom in using this power as I see fit.


I often fail my languages. They do not — have not, will not, will never — fail me. I fail them through my inability to gauge limits and use their gifts fully; I falter in speech and writing, aware of my undeserving hands and lips, aware of the ineptitude that one so weak is often faced with.


They are rarely benevolent. Sometimes they show me their wonders, but often I am an alien. I am not privy to their secrets. I am only afforded glimpses of their worlds, teased by skirts that hike up ankles sleeves that fall past wrists, but no higher.


I am aware of a great many things that make me unworthy of my languages, but sometimes they make it glaringly obvious. They punish me for it: they invade the forefront of my thoughts and saturate my tongue and fingers with their frustration of me and my silence, my drought.

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