Strings

There had been moments, in the past, where I delicately tossed myself to the strings of escape, long enough, just about enough, for it to be slashed with a husk reality. To love was to roam an open road, fantasy was freedom, fantasy; so good, its never ever good enough, leaving a heart, thirsty after every run.

He would grab my hand, like he had a claim to it. Him, who smuggled me into an image, an idea of a woman, lodged so deep into his mind. Him, who lost tracks to the outlines of his life. Him, the identity scar, at twenty years young, when writers of my favorite books, were warning me about love, thats where I recognized, they were only painting pictures of him, in between red flags.

He couldn't weigh his shoulders heavy, he belongs to the curious crowd, those are not to be trusted, they tire easily, they are silver-shiver; their bones tremble as they hold you, afraid you might break them, they keep guard, they wear a lot of black and they chase after stories, only to leave unfinished chapters on their trail. The ugly truth only comes, too little too soon. They can never be done with you, because they never really started. They come back.

They always come back, to spill fresh blood over tired phrases to yet another start.