a cello sits in the middle of the room.
as you reach closer you realize the strings are
no longer attached,
strewn about on the ground,
a chaotic mess.
you want to fix them,
but you only know how to play the strings,
mending is too complex.
mending takes time and patience,
whereas playing is instinct.
but, god, you love that cello.
how come the strings came undone?
it wasn't lack of care or love,
that you know all too well.
you choose to mend the strings,
as you have chosen to love the cello.
and so you tend to the broken instrument,
careful with each motion,
tightening the strings to absolute perfection.
and play them once more.
YOU ARE READING
Inside My Reflection
PoetryTW// A caution while reading. There are personal stories of abuse, please do not read if this is a trigger.// An interpersonal look on trauma and its building blocks. The determination to break free from generational trauma. This story is told from...
