Drabble #38 – Whirlpool

Smother the bird of my heart and make a wreath of the feathers. Hang it from your door. Let me at least be a trophy in your cabinet. I’ll bleed into the walls; into the plaster so that I’m all you see in the corner of your eye. I taped needles to my skin in hopes that you would understand how I felt when you touched me. Notice the pearls around my neck, each a sliver of happiness, painstakingly strung one by one. You’ve pressed the fragments of these into my palms, ran them over with alcohol to sterilize the feelings out of them. Maybe they’ll fade, or disintegrate. I’ll never know if they do.