Stockholm Syndrome

I could feel her pain
I could almost see the tears in each word she wrote down
Every line seemed to bleed all the misery her forefathers faced
Her every metaphor was just an obvious diversion from the sadness they weld
She muffled a laughter, all in an attempt to seem like things weren’t so bad
I admit she’s a good actor; but it would be delirium not to see through this obvious charade
She was like a textile designer doing a paint job of a renovated house
She was dying inside
It shocks me how no one else seemed to notice, or tried to
Her sadness was like the sound a wine glass makes when it kisses the floor
It was loud and reckless
Maybe a tumbler is called a tumbler because it tumbles over nothing
Just like her tears
Her eyes were wells buried in mirage; they bled all year long but bent in fake wrinkles of smiles at the first sound of human
She wasn’t heart broken, she was soul shattered
And although she never spoke a word to me, I clearly heard her voice calling out for help
She was beautiful. She was music
And I regret she never heard my cry in response
I couldn’t help her
I was the afflicter
She died in my warm embrace
Or maybe it wasn’t warm. Maybe it was fire
I cried when I lost her
She was my favourite play thing

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