Spotless.

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Picture courtesy: Pinterest.

————————-TRIGGER WARNING————————-

1. A piece of paper you are. A valueless blank sheet. White and pale. I adorn you with black ink. Scramble and scribble right across the freckles on your skin. You tell others you’re shadowed by me, virtues of yours muddied with my habits. I pick on you only because I don’t know how else I can grasp your attention. I feel a part of the spotlight only when I share the stage with you and you tell me you’re better off being a vacuous sheet of paper? That you’re better off being alone? How am I to agree with that? A pen, just idle with ink, I wish to make you feel beautiful. A bully, you call me. Is it what I am to you?

2. Ever had your heart fluttering to the sound of someone’s voice? Mine has. Hence, I choose you. I pick you from the budding and blooming flowers out there. Plucked out of existence. She likes me, she likes me not. You are my medium. Convince me now. Common, tell me. Pushed into the superstitious worlds I am. Hold my hand and lead me to a place that makes me believe a utopian world exists. With her. Tell me that she will be mine. Ended up with one petal of you. Stopped at she likes me not. Pieces of you lay scattered on the ground. Pieces of my heart next to you now. A bully, you call me. For tearing you apart. Can’t you see me torn?

3. I hold the blade. Sharp and shining. I look down. Stare at both my hands. A hand of mine pushed forth, the other slides past. Reminds me of how I play the violin. The melody, this time, coming from my own skin. The blade goes past and comes back. Drops of blood trickling on the floor. An odd calm through the chaos. A numbing sensation welcomes me to the realm of joy. An eerie silence. I, my own bully. What have you got to say now? Were you a participant too? You think you were the cause for this? Causation and effect, they call it. Calm it. Broken yet beautiful. I have my reasons. I needed the trigger to make myself realize that I am capable too. I paint my own horizons and the trigger did it. A bully, I call myself. But this time, the good came out of it. The violin? I stopped playing it. Metaphor. Pause.

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