She twirls and spins in various patterns, s l o w l y tracing back and forth over her footprints that mark her past.
She watches her feet precisely, while they s l o w l y dance in patterns
of remorse and despair.
Her heart feels heavy, as if it could give in at any moment.
Feelings of desperation seep into her soul and pierce into her delicate heart.

She’s crossed this path millions of times.
She can’t seem to m o v e on; not even if her life depended upon it.
What’s the use of moving on, when you can lose yourself in the
majestic patterns of repetition?

She was content with the open wounds, and dark gray days.
She lost herself in the sound of piano keys and remarkable voices.
The quiet noise made her soul feel numb.

She knew things wouldn’t change, while she sat in the corner, painting bright pictures on the ceiling.
They mocked her depression, and sheltered her hope.

If only for a moment, she was engulfed by a happiness that was so exceptionally beautiful.
It was a beauty unknown to such a tortured soul.
It seemed too good to be anything close to the truth.
Her whole world was put on p a u s e, as were the daggers of pain that stabbed into her soul daily.

Nothing else mattered.
The magical feeling of happiness had miraculously found her aching soul,
and that was all she thought about.

But almost instantly, it was ripped straight out of her fists that were clenched so tightly.
She tried to tell herself that she deserved this. She had fought for so long,
and put up with so much.
She deserved to be happy.

But, she couldn’t run from the demons that resided within her shattered soul.
They constantly scratched at her heart and silently whispered words of discouragement into her mind.

She was a fool to think such beauty could be hers.
She was nothing but the scraps of a torn up newspaper,
gliding aimlessly through the wind.

She knows she’s lying to herself, as she goes back to the corner, quietly looking up at the bright paintings on the ceiling.
Tears gently roll down her cheeks, as she hears laughter erupt within the paintings. She laughs along, as they mock her mournful cries.
She’s nothing but a coward.

She’s never known how to keep moving forward; it always ends like this.
She’ll spin and twirl, s l o w l y and silently, back into the familiar footsteps she walks in day by day.
The footprints that mark her past, and constantly hold her back.

She’ll continue to watch her feet move
precisely in the same majestic pattern
that they always do.

She’ll spin around,
and around,
and around…