the wonder of strings

the wonder of strings

i wonder. my heart makes me feel toward you like I can’t have you
but you already gave me the strings to your heart and told me to lift and pull as I please-this is me pleasing to pull you back into me but all I think about are things I shouldn’t think or say or do or hope to say or see or do because I don’t feel safe in you.I wish you were more of my faceless priest that opens and closes window to confessions you thought you wanted me to share. share some not all because all is too much. all is more than I want to handle. you put a cap on things and tell me you’re through with carrying me. I’m so embarrassed at how much i confided in you. I wish i had more primer to cover my face before making the mistake of picking the off-grey shade of paint. this house is older than mosaic table tops can cover. cemented beyond vintage plates shattered on the wall of my heart in hopes of making something old new. old is old. get over the molded walls and move out of this house. it’s too old to live in anymore.

I’m sad. I’m so very sad.

this was such a good home and I loved this home even more than it could love me. There was an end to the home’s love for me, but my love did not end for you. how embarrassing it must be to be you. that’s what I knew you’d say to me in pity looking back from the lens of your new home and love that is better than me. That is sad. It gets more than fingers can roll between the edges of tattered pages that shouldn’t be pages in the book of a world long beyond its time. I tune my strings to the sound of what you used to be, I’ve tuned and re-tuned and wonder how long my fingers will hurt before calloused fingers bleed. I make it my end to callous beyond the point of blood which I knew as exposure to that of a weak faith. who can handle the insanity of blood from my fingers that write stories I swear don’t belong to me. I watch and take what’s yours to the degree that it is mine. at what point do I let this side of me free, at what point do I stuff what they don’t see far enough away before I get labeled an off-shade grey. I wish you were a sliding door that I controlled up and down, up and down, confessions in, confessions out--the faceless girl who confesses infidelities gone wrong, then gone right. am I at the point of insanity or am I simply ok with finding the end of the strings empty and no longer attached to the heart I thought I could pull and lift as I
please ?