A red thread flows from her small finger.
Where it leads, she does not know.
Her feet traces the invisible path, digging hearts out as she goes.
Always, the throbbing pain is mismatched.
Those hearts did not belong to her.
The hole inside her chest cannot be filled by mere fabrication.
Where is the man that holds her heart in a birdcage?
No matter how many hearts she holds in her hand,
She only wants the one that was always hers.
1 comment:
So sad, and yet so true.
I loved how you write it, so beautiful and artistic.
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