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the tortured
The Tortured is a blonde woman, with water coursing through her body, a mind so bright yet so dark, a soul disrupted and pieced back together with super glue and gold glitter. Mesmerizing, yet terrifying—like TV static.
At night, she howls at the Moon, begging God to send her a new lover,
one better for her health.
She calls out to the Fates, specifically asking for the return of the golden-haired boy
she knew she loved the moment she saw him.
The uncertainty and the waiting brought her anguish. She searched faces in the streets,
with one thought echoing in her mind:
What are the chances he’s downtown?
The thought of meeting him again was eating her alive. She wonders where he is,
if his heart is free, or if it now belongs to another soul.
She spends half of her waking hours on a train,
and the other half daydreaming of his eyes looking up and meeting hers,
just one more time.
The memory brings her to the verge of tears, because she once held lightning in her hand,
and let it slip away.
And she tells herself: "If it’s meant to be, it will be. Good things come in threes."
She begs, she prays to meet his glance again someday,
so she can one day tell her grandchildren that the pain was worth it.
That happiness has to be fought for. And she did.
And as these thoughts drift through her, her mind turns to static, and she falls asleep,
dreaming of the sun shining on blond hair, of his figure standing tall by the window,
of their glances, and how the air felt electric just a few years ago.
