Hallowed heartbeats inside a most empty chest; blood thick like syrup enlaced with tiny disappointments, failed efforts and vanquished dreams. A mind that cannot assemble unto anything but the unanticipated circumstances.
The very seems unraveling; each thread being pulled to breach its deepest point of weakness and vulnerability.
A pair of hands desperate to clutch the weight of a heavy head.
Feet that could not find their way, eyes clouded simply with sadness.
Body parts of a girl that can’t work independently, let alone together.
Broken but still working? Broken but still working. Broken but still working. Broken but still working.
What’s the use of this sort of girl?
Where’s her purpose?
Who wants the best for her?
Who worries after her?
Who can make hands weightless; pull them in affection towards the sky?
Who can illuminate wooly paths?
Who can take a heart and make it dense?
Who can take something that’s working and broken, fixing it to be whole and stop?