The resonance of her song is low,
Yet strong as it carries me to a surreal world,
A womb only wished in a whisper,
Set aside.
She breathes.matures.expands.endures.
At last her chords consume me,
Meticulously filling my damned soul's pores,
A precious effort to redeem me...
It is the song of a sadist
That carries masochistic melodies,
Subtle undertones of longing and pleasure.
She sings of resentment and wrath,
Of vendetta and loss.
I see her now...
Through glass fogged by unworthiness,
I view a fragile teenage girl.
Her eyes lack self-respect,
And her darkened clothing reeks of envy,
Her lips are parted but unmoving,
Leaking the breath of desire.
I realize now it is not she singing,
But her heart...
Her chest lies open,
Cardiac nerves pulsating
Behind the steel ribs
Of self-incarceration.
She is the prisoner of her own mind,
Silhouetted forever by lost youth...
I watch as resent floods her eyes,
Regret dripping from her open chest.
It is the color of desperation.
She struggles with raw wrists above her,
Bound by her insecurity,
She cannot let herself go...
And yet she smiles.
She either enjoys.endures.denies this pain.
Is it pleasure knowing she can still feel?
Pride knowing she can endure?
Or a lie,
A blatant blaspheme to her soul?
She seems so distant, yet so familiar.
I need to know,
Need to feel,
Need to see...
I wipe the glass with my sleeve,
My hands bound together.
It is true.
We are one.
