The Game of Prose

“Souvenirs”

The music’s loud and it’s exactly what she needs. The soundwaves mute the pounding of her heart in her throat and the crowd makes her comfortably numb. Before the breakdown there’s a melody and it replaces all the fear with supernatural power. The louder, the better and she’s realizing what a mess she was before today. She’s got a heart that follows breadcrumbs into dark houses full of nightmares and killjoys, and eyesight too weak to see the warning signs along the way. But she won’t be defined by these souvenir panic attacks over tiny letdowns that trick her into believing her entire world were about to crumble apart, leaving sinkholes and lava streams across her soul planet. How tormented is the love that fears you’ll kill it and still walks beside? How many chains does it take to bind a romantic heart to keep it from its own self-destruction? But she doesn’t want a brick wall heart. How loud does the music have to be before the vibrations demolish the weakness for good? All this moment is doing is revealing her true motives and her reckless naivety terrifies her. She believes the best and it’s been the death of her countless times before. Clockwork. Some days she’s going out of her mind, and all the steps she takes to get to her goal seem futile. She looks ahead but each step is really her walking up the down escalator into this person she was that she never knew could exist until now. Future, past, present. A cycle. None of this makes any sense to you or her, but how can you describe the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that lingers despite your efforts to fill it with life? There’s a void and she’s the best at reminding herself it’s there. “I am my own worst enemy.”

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