a deeper burn mark

This time, she cries not for what could have been, but for the delusion she had been living in all along, fitting you into the oversized tee of the person you were in her mind. She cries for the silences and distances that she had always overlooked, almost too readily forgotten. They come back now. She weeps for all the tears she had shed before, in her bed, on the train, in the classroom, her heart knotted in lovesick turmoil, not realising then that this was never what love should be. She trembles at the realisation that it was never meant to be, the realisation that had always been a tiny little voice somewhere at the back of her mind that spoke up whenever an ominous sign showed itself, like dark warnings out of a storybook, that she laughed at and threw aside. She cries for how she gave her all so willingly, so desperately, all for a glimmer of you. How she abandoned all emotional sanity and let herself be Antoinette, that pathetic string puppet, being tugged swayed flung by your every move, every word, even when you had never intended to touch the doll. She hates herself for the glass heart that she herself willingly let drop, for the shattered pieces that she now trods on every now and then as she attempts to fix the crystal of life back together.