the threads in her head

this soft-footed malady-

What is this foreign pain in my heart, quivering so gently in my bosom? Like a fretful restless child, rocking, rocking itself at my heart, plaintively whining out for some comfort, some ease, for a cradle to rock it back to sleep.

See that child, my heart, lie on the bed, curled up, ashen and broken. Yet with such vivid bright eyes she looks on, eyes that burn with a light all of its own. That’s the reason why it sears this time is it not? Those eyes, eyes that have seen life, that have blinked, but flicker open again, to take in the deep rich claret of the liquid of life, and the dazzling fuchsia of some unknown flower, and the gorgeous greens tracing out the veins of life in a leaf. And yet the rest of it is so wasted, so small, so, so… shriveled.

It makes me not myself.

This light-toed ache that steps around in my heart is nothing I would want to wish on the most beloved of friends, nor the greatest of enemies. So I am not supposed to tell, not supposed to speak, not supposed let the smallest mention of it slip out from my lips to anyone, anyone who can comprehend even the smallest fraction of it. Yet my whole self is trembling with the weight of this light ache, like a babe, it’s so new, tender, and helpless, and it is this very frailness, this delicate fragility that makes it almost a precious heavy weight.

Yet telling it to someone who does not comprehend, and unable to offer me any comfort, unable to say, “I understand” only causes me to make a forced smile, not wishing to disappoint the person whom I have just imposed myself on. And nothing is eased, so why bother expending my energy to tell it to another…

So who, who can I tell it to?

A second of pause, as eyes survey the world, the people milling about, the broken, the fallen, the beggars along the streets… the happy, the assured, the ones who’ll give you advice… the strong, your loves, the friends you trust. A low sigh, kept soft for the fear that others might hear, before the hands methodically arrange the sequins, rhinestones and feathers on my Venetian mask.

The second ticks down to the masquerade of life.