Nothing burnt as bright as broken expectations. Nothing throbbed like knowing her mind was a safer place than reality, knowing that the things her heart desired would never be hers, because she told herself that they would be. Her mind knows exactly what makes her tick, her body a steady clock; still and smooth, precise and pristine. It knows exactly what brings her up, what pulls her down, and what draws her in, using it against her. It brings out the sharpest of silver bladed swords, and wars against her heart as its poor naiveties allow it to be caught off guard. And guard it does, bringing out its finest shield to repel each jab at her mind. Her mind, it cackles with an evil grin as it fills her heart with false pretences, and thoughts of impossible things that it makes seem possible, while piecing together a puzzle with rigged ends and jagged sides.

And so it melts, her heart, the way it does when she looks at you. Flowing from her eyes are drops of desire, of greed and lust, and broken wishes. Each drop spills from her sapphire eyes, ashamed and cold. Her heart believed it all, put each ounce of hope into the promises of her mind. As time passed, her heart realized its dirty tricks, its sick games of playing pretend. And so, revenge became an offer she could not refuse. To fool her mind and let it feel the burn of disappointment. She forced her mind to swallow the broken expectations that it blissfully teased her heart with, and take back every falsehood. The stronger her heart fought back, the less it would control her; the less her mind would spit in her face.

Now, on the outside, there you are, with a smile more burnished than the finest gold, and eyes that hypnotize. And there she is, falling harder, deeper, faster; a feeling so bittersweet. Like clockwork she starts again. Her mind winds up, and her discerning revelation has fleeted like a fox. Now she is left in the end of the battle she thought she had won, right back under the blade of her mind’s weapon.

Her mind has rewinded like an old cassette tape, but not a tape that is worth listening to over again. It is a tape filled with songs with empty lyrics. Lyrics with temporary excitements, bombarding the ears with simple melodies that call for dancing alone in an empty room with no one watching. But they fill the soul with nothing, they fill the heart with nothing. Songs whose lyrics are thinly laced together with vowels, sounds, and generic rhymes that boast no intelligence and walk down trails that have been uncovered before.


She ventures back down her travelled trail, passing familiar faces. She is afraid of you passing her by without so much as a glance, so she hides. You are everywhere and nowhere. She sits still and untouched, feeling as though inside she is going insane, while outside she stays still as stone. Romanticizing is all she knows, and all that messes with her heart. The life of a sceptic, of a realist, is a much easier life. To not have whimsical dreams burning up the soul like wildfire would end this internal misery. She wants to stand up and clear her mind, because staring into the blankness creates pictures and thoughts that lead to hopes and wants, warping into expectations. And where there are expectations, there are windows and doors with disappointment waiting on the other side.

The melting snow races down her window pane as she waits on the wrong side of the window again. Her minds trickery lands her heart back on the path to disappointment. She watches each snowflake, so brisk, so blissful, knowing exactly where it needs to land, exactly how it needs to be and refusing to be anyone’s puppet. She shivers at the amazement of something so steady and true. Something so free that cannot be touched or taken down. A confidence that she only wished she could have. But instead she remains staring into the winter wind, and sees you. She can’t escape you, you are like a disease that twists its way like a vine around her very being, impossible to cut loose.

The snow frosts over the glass, clouding her vision. Clarity is lost to a familiar acquaintance named confusion. She is left filled then emptied, healed then bruised; back at the start. She squints her tired eyes, recognizing a familiar figure that has haunted her dreams so bluntly. What waits on the other side of the glass is an all too familiar mystery. She breathes out. She is still, and like clockwork, she starts again.