the threads in her head

The words that can come out in a drunken stupor of depression and dejection are apparently sharp and lethal, like a sword designed to slice and strip to the very bone. Where a thin silver of blood drips from the wound, and it hurts not only the flesh, but the heart and soul.

Yet in this haze I know not whether those words had even been said, whether those thoughts even appeared. I stand trial now, in a seemingly guilty till proven innocent case. The accusant has pinned this crime onto me, this crime which I have no recollections of at all. Here I stand, horrified, and seeking for answers, for the parts of the jigsaw puzzle to piece back the exact scene. For my memories apparently run on a different track.

Here I sit in front of the screen, staring at the words that so eloquently place my crime before me. Here I am, frantically typing, to make sure I have not seen wrong, that he had not remembered wrong. And I'm the one who's seeking for answers, who's trying desperately to clear myself of this accusation.

For I certainly do not remember hurting them in such a way, throwing such a bitter and harsh question out at them. Why would I? I'm not fit to ask them such a question in the first place, and I wouldn't have. One day they would stumble upon their questions themselves. I need not tell them, I need not, should not, be the harsh and critical one who tell them.

I cannot leave this issue alone unresolved. Yet my mouth is filled with the unplesant taste of realisation - that you'll probably want to dismiss this matter.

I pray you won't. For the knots would leave me twisting in agony.