Old skin wrinkeled with days of pain and plain labour, her hands have almost begun to look like cooking gloves and her face has crackled away with the heat of ironing boards and greasy ovens, her back is as crooked as a question mark which sits ontop of her head every day , day by day, its obsession leads her to not even think about letting it sit ontop of the tip of her tongue, her kitchen knife and eyes don’t even look at eachother anymore while in use. Her whole purpose is to make her loved ones lives a small speck better, with clean clothes, tidy rooms, warm dinners. Perfect family life, everything is automatic, even the emotion, theyre kisses are like garbage bins you haveto empty out for the purpose of them being full. Theyre hugs are like putting a coat on before you go outside because its raining. Her needs don’t exist, her cries don’t have purpose, her dinner plate is the odd one out of the rest, her clock doesn’t ring in the morning, she never comes home frustrated to talk about people she hates, her closet has fancy clothes she never wears, her coffe cup is held the most, her seat around the fireplace has a dent in it, her shoes are 10 years old and look new, no everything is a ok, nothing wrong , she having a perfect happy life, well every rose dies out at some point, which is why her vase fell and shattered into a million pieces, each one representing a time she has released salt water from her pearls,
she grabs her apren and tares it up into another million pieces, she brakes every piece of cutlery in her sight, she goes and wrips her prettiest dresses up, she goes and burns her face off with the iron, her hands bleeding from frustration now, she takes steps towards mother nature and begins to not think about life, bare footed on the grass, walking on splitters next to the river which she used to watch flow by when she was a child, no worried clockwork, happy with her life, she wants to feel how it must have been that river to be watched deadly flow by, so she lets go of everything and step by step lets the water lead herself into the stream, so her veins become tributaries and her eyes become water dropplettes, sick of her rerunning life, she lies within the river to let the water guide her, which goes always forward and never back, she is now a leaf held on the delicate skin of the water and her hair is seaweed in the liquid wind, she now holds a neverending smile going down that stream.

-A song by Slit Tongue