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Feb 3, 2012

Pulling at the Heartstrings

Rotating the rusted knobs,
Flicking the string,
Five more left to put in.
Five more left until she is human.
Strings are gently knotted, and harshly pulled to the end,
Where she lovingly secures them.
Lovingly, for they have never experienced such gentleness.

One breaks. A flinch drowns her face,
A tear breaks the guarded defense her eye. 
The ghost of the pain
Is too much of a phantom to efface.

The strings,
Were so abused in her body; Before,
When they were in her heart,
They were played, until she was aching and sore.
When they were in her heart,
Her soul suffered so deep an injury,
They snapped, healed, and became bruised.
And she couldn't muster the energy
To tend to them.

Now they are stretched taut on her instrument,
She never had so much control of them as she does now---
Testing, a gentle pulling of a string,
And the air is filled with the sweet sound of shock---
The shrill pitch of euphoria,
Then the bass of sorrow and depression,
The melodious twang of freedom
And the underlying notes of indescribable happiness.

The house was so quiet before,
Mrs Higgins from next door thinks.
It used to be filled with screams of agony.
And now, the windows are tickled pink with beautiful music.
She is tugging at them. At her own heartstrings,
Giving them the love they were denied all along,
Expressing their identity,
Because inside her heart, they were abused and oblong.


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