The Violinist

May 11, 2010
She sits there,
A crumbled mess in the middle of the bedroom floor,
Weeping as she tries to hold it steady....
Placing it down lightly on the nominated spot,
Where she has done this so many times before.
Her satin hand hesitate for a moment,
Then begins to move it back and forth stealthily,
As she begins to play her lullaby,
Upon the violin she calls her wrist.

With the fading luminescence of the quarter moon
Shining upon her through her broken window,
She sighs with relief and drops it,
As the sound of the drop if muffled by the bloodied rag.
There are no more tears scraping across her face of marble,
Only damp streaks remain, but only for a second,
As she whips them away with her trembling hands.

She starts to pick up the crumbs,
Tucking them away where no one but her would know,
Drops the rag dripping with her troubles of that night
In the waist basket the same way he dropped her.

She finally makes it back to her nest,
The bed on the floor in the corner.
She begins to curls up inside her blanket,
Restricting it around herself tight,
For there is nothing left to hold back the pain no more,
Cause he crashed through the ceiling that night,
And tore down the walls she crafted so carefully.

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