Everything was tearing, but that was ok.
Slipping slowly into madness, she took out thread and her needle and took up her mending. In between her fingers she held her pain on a string, stiching together the two halves of her heart reduced to mere scraps. The scraps came together, and fell apart as time wore on, and the red lines cut through the fabric on her cutting board spilled no blood. Instead, they drew clairity from her veins and made her internal conflict a bit more managable. She traced the telling seams with one finger, plucked out the stitches and began again.
The needle dipped in and out of her porcelain skin, leaving behind a single word.
YOU ARE READING
She Just Wasn't
Short StoryI was never her, and she is not me, but still she's here, living my life. ~><~ I am trying to find myself. Sometimes that's not easy. ~ Marilyn Monroe
