If dreams knew pain, which they did as often as it pleased, a bit too often if you asked me. I remember her crying.
Poor child cried and cried. She would sit at the end of her corner and wail. She was as lonely as lonely could be. She was me. She was my lost childhood. The one I so desperately tried to hide.
I ignored the weeping child again. I cannot face my childhood wounds, not hers, which I refuse to acknowledge are mine.
That I'm her and she's me. That we shared the same body that was betrayed. It's her fault not mine. So, go away filthy child. Run away, so that I may pretend to be happy again.
So like that I pretended and I dreamed once more.
YOU ARE READING
Chasing Butterflies
Short StoryDreams.... art, dance and fleeting memories and music. That I can no longer make sense of. Maybe they never did. Maybe they don't have to. Yet, I've tried. Tried to peice them all together...to sew these.. endlessly t o...
