Over time, her mouth became a string instrument tightened with the tension of constraining her words.
Measures between her laughs and ivory smiles grew longer, each beat of silence lingering for just a note too long.
More often than not, tired sandpaper lids scrape against the white expanse of her eyes, exposing the red vein strings hiding beneath; they turn the half note circles below into shades of a minor key.
At night, her heart thrums to the rhythm of a staccato symphony: rising, rising, rising, as if her conductor brain commands it - faster, faster, faster.
Frantic thoughts create a polyphonic sound of worry and dejection - melodic harmonies to the hasty trills within her xylophone ribcage
These sounds echo in the acoustics of her skull like the clicks of an off beat metronome.
Prompt: “Write about a change you have noticed in your lifetime, but write only about the things that embody or illustrate this change. It might be a change you have noticed in a friendship, in the body of a loved one, in your hometown…” (Pagh 79)
She holds regret between her teeth like a red thread of punishment she can’t fit through a needle - every time she tries to get rid of it, his face pricks the corner of her thoughts and she starts all over again.
She sits there, a reproachful patchwork of emotions picking at the loose threads that lay between him and her, like a vulture who picks at bones already clean of meat. She was threadbare, hanging like broken seams cut from blue muslin squares and bleached in the sun.
Smells of mothballs and old fabric clippings rushed the insides of her nostrils, while she unspun a new spool of black thread, replacing the red one - frayed and covered in her saliva. The remnants of desperate attempts to force a broken thing into working.
When she pulls the black thread through - when she no longer feels a familiar tug on the sinews connecting her heart to her ribcage - she allows herself to take in the colours of the world she knew before: ochres, indigos, mauves, even pewters - thimbles to the needle memories that pricked her mind.
Weaving the needle in and out - through loops woven from moments stitched into her skin and mind, she embroiders the story of letting go.
Prompt:“1. … find a passage [of your writing] dominated by your attention to imagery and the way your language sounds… Transfer it onto a page and begin making a poem from this skeleton.” from Nancy Pagh’s Write Moves, pg 44.