She is weary from carrying the burden of her own heart. It is heavy with prose uninked, but permanently inscribed. It bleeds poetry as a release of pressure, allowing tendrils of tentative desire to fill the air. It gives her the illusion of being lighter, of being seen, of having a true voice. But the heart knows the bitter truth and that’s why her darkness grows. The seeds of discontent bear words that simmer in her blood. The syllables beat against her skin, invisibly bruising her confidence. The characters battle for the air in her lungs, allowing her to only inhale the smoky remnants of their sordid affairs and heartbroken dances. The cacophony of conflicting emotions roars in her ears, not allowing her to hear the sincere sentiments of her loved ones. She desperately picks up a pencil and puts lead to paper only to find that her creative motivation has committed suicide. The body of her memories hangs from a noose of mangled words, swinging silently in her grieving heart.