fickle fingers fight over one another to trace under the fabrics guarding your heart they pluck at the sinew strings and tickle the tendons; try as they might they wont find what makes you tick
and that's by design, is it not? you have woven a web of worries, each pounding against each other, to amplify, to exacerbate, to make sure you never feel a thing ever again.
because to feel is to hurt, over and over again. and you've never been able to heal. they ripped apart your heartstrings, stripped away the sinew, tore at the tendons.
you don't know how to heal, so you built a woven mail, of distrust and panic attacks, so the only hurt you felt was your own. To repair something that never truly healed, you must fracture it open again, slowly stripping away the bandages of a broken heart.
Ahhhh, I love the gentle touches of alliteration that you use in your poem. I can tell how carefully crafted this is. It is so beautiful <33 thanks for sharing, friend
Who's to say that my light is better than your darkness? Who's to say death is better than your darkness? Who am I to say?
