Tuesday, January 11, 2011


She fears not of falling asleep, but of the nightmare that is still there when she opens her eyes. Reality is all she has known in her dusty little corner. No colour or rainbows. She has never held a doll in her hands or had a beautiful dress in which she danced in.

Voices are what commands her. They beckon to her, telling her to do things. Things that she does not want to do. But she cannot refuse, because if she does she will surely die.

She once had dreams. Stolen dreams that are now but distant memories. She wanted to be a ballerina, she remembers. One that is like a swan, so beautiful and graceful. Now she only dreams of escaping the hellhole she knows as home.

Bags. Bags of what little belongings she has left. She fills them with pieces of her - broken pieces, and then lifts the window latch until she is no longer dreaming, walking towards the direction that will lead her away from her nightmare, until she finds her heart.

1 comment:

Leona said...

Hey there ;)

I think this is a nice piece. It encompasses a lot of different meanings, and I'm sure different people would have varying interpretations. I like open-ended pieces like that.

I hope you're doing well.


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