Broken strings & Pretty things

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

Archive for the month “January, 2015”


And she wished that he had stayed.

Because he stained everything. He poured himself all over her life, her loves, her breathing until everything was covered. He submerged himself so deeply that she could never wash him off. He touched her more than a kiss, he touched her life; he touched her dreams, her work and her loves. He tattooed his name on her tongue, etched his face in her eyes and his smell could never quite be washed from her clothes. He was waiting next to her on the train platform. He chased her down those familiar streets. She found him sitting in her favourite restaurants. She tried her best to escape, but even the music which bled into her ears couldn’t drown out his swirling intonation. She locked the door behind her, but he still let himself in. He lay down by her side as she tried to rest her weary head. As she slept, his fingers pressed circles in her back and no matter how many switches she hit, she could not put out the dark glimmer in his eyes.

He haunted her so deeply and profusely, she did not know when she would be free. He had left his mark on her, and his bitter ink sunk so deeply within her that she didn’t know if she would ever be clean again.


On letting go.

Some vaults are better left locked. Some bridges are better burnt. Some people are better left as an idea than a reality.

Sometimes it’s better to roll out of bed and roll away from them. Sometimes you need to pick up those memories scattered across your bedroom floor and place them in a long-forgotten drawer.  Sometimes it’s healthier to leave a full stop rather than continuing indefinitely.
And it will hurt. It will most go against every last gripping sinew, but you still have to just let go. The problem isn’t with them, but with you; you created mountains out of spider webs and you buried all your treasure in a graveyard.

So put away Saturday evenings driving though diamond lit cities and forget smoky laughs. Forget dancing around the kitchen and film-stained grins. Put them away out of reach until you can one day open that box without losing your heart to the floor.

But let them know that you love them. Let them know that they are more wonderful, more precious, than the world itself. Let them know that you will always be there, dusk or dawn. Let them know that you are going to be back, but just not now.

Say that you will miss every passing clock tick, but you will be with them soon.

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And this is true happiness.

Snow stained sparkles and red lipped laughter. Caverns of quilts shaped by a long missed embrace. Familiar scents and unforgotten laughter. Winding roads leading me back to the steps I once trod. The warmth of deep voices cradled by the tender taste of afternoon tea. The deep ginger of worn beards and the prickle of awfully grown moustaches. The jibes of merciless teasing, carving faces into permanent grins. The clattering of clay plates and the comfort of my mother’s food. The richness of wine intoxicating green eyes. The endless chatter of your breathless accent alight by fire in your personality. The sweetness of your soul and the unending hilarity of your sister’s jokes.

Once a place so entrenched in fear has finally become a haven.

The exorcism of my home town.

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