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I stumble into your room and see them. They are everywhere. Some are in the pockets of your jeans that are strewn across a chair, some are scattered across the floor like confetti. Five or so lie across your desk and one of them is pinned to the cork-board, but most lie on the ground.
You are still in the hallway. I take a couple slow steps, trying not to sway. Something crunches under my foot and I look down. I pick it up, examining the damage.
It is worn out, with cracks lining the edges with ketchup smears painting thin lines across the surface. Something peeks out one side—the end of a string. You enter and I drop it and turn, trying not to think about it.
You reach me and hook your arm around me, pulling me close. I watch one of them fall out of your hair onto the ground to be crushed by his foot. As I am pulled down I see some are stuck to your ceiling.
Your lips find mine and I close my eyes as we reach the covers.
A couple more of them are shoved to the side or crushed under my body; some fall to the ground.
You pause for a second to meet my gaze. Through the fragrance of cheap beer and the haze of bottles of whiskey I still see your beautiful hazel-colored eyes. You have this shaggy blond hair that makes girls want to run their hands through them forever and ever—
A single one shifts on the floor from the corner of my eye, the end of the string lays across it.
—your breath is so warm now as you hold me close. I hug you. You murmur my name—
I knew the stories about you; everyone did. But that didn’t matter because you chose me.
— You get up for a second and I see one lying on your pillow. I pick it up slowly, feeling the rough end of the string with my pinky. This one has similar rips and scratches to the first. The surface has been muddied quite a bit also. I take a thumb to it and smear off a streak. I gasped softly.
It was beautiful. It shined.
I looked around again—at all of them—and I clutched it in my hand. You are back now, along with those lips, but I am still staring at what was in my hands.
Calmly, I peel you off me, ignoring your cry of protest, and head to the door. I give you one last glance—so pitiful.
All these things, like in my hand, you just threw away. With no care for them whatsoever, you crushed them. You simply used them until your were bored and cut off their strings—leaving them stranded. You enjoyed your little games—playing with them amused you so—but it was hard to keep you entertained for long. Hide behind that mask of sweet talk and charm, behind those hazel eyes that takes a girl’s breath away. Your mask is as impenetrable as it is invisible.
You, the cruel puppeteer.
I am out the door now and your voice, once so beautiful, is now in high pitched yells behind me.
But I won’t let you do it again.
I won’t let you do those things to my heart as you did to those other girls’.
And maybe, while I’m at it, I could bring some of those broken ones—and let them shine once more.