the threads in her head

Oh, gently stroke the strings of my pain, unintentionally. Run your fingers across, down, across and again with every single word of abashment uttered. Pluck the tune of your heart's desire, softly, softly. Whisper into the hollow, fill it with empty echoes, sounds bouncing off so many other sounds. The ghost of comfort haunts this place, lipid little thing of sentimentality.

Why, I'm tired. Tears threatens to spill. Hey it hurts. It really does. Enough with the flippancy. I can't take it. I can't bear it. At this stage every word of yours sound insincere.

Really it's by my own hand though. I blame myself for attaching comfort and warmth to those words. Oh such sentimental nature, to return to it, now and then, and even share it at times. What folly.

And you would have think I've learnt my lesson. To stop attaching my own meanings to other stuff.

My body feels like old clockwork. Bent springs and stagnant gears, brown with rust. I'm creaking so as I stretch and try to spin smoothly. It refuses. It fails.

It fails.

Pluck the strings so hard, forcefully, till it finally snaps.