Broken strings & Pretty things

The world, seen through a young girl's eyes.

Lament for the broken man.

He lies there, floundering over cluttered tables, hurling abuse as if it was extra change. He grovels and he jokes; he curses and he cries. He gets up, tries to steady himself, and sways as the waves of his own drunkenness crash over his limp body. Another pained look shoots my way, and once again I frame his tear stricken iris. I see pain pulverize him as I turn away, and slowly hatred fills every membrane of his being.
He shouts, he cries, he scorns. He threatens and then he crumbles.

He wakes up, he regrets and he pleads.
But that night was enough for me to see who you really are. Enough to see you haven’t changed.
Enough for me to confirm: never again.

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