By Hannah Louise MacFarlane

Click your heels three times and hope for the best.

I’m walking a tightrope of misdemeanours and a weak heart. When I believed a word they said, I thought for a second that it could be true that perhaps the gentle nature that often won out over the facade of hardness I portrayed would, in any way, shape or form influence good some day. I let that notion stick for far too long within the crevices of my inner most picturesque fallacy and its left marks on the wall that’ll sit there until the whole thing falls down.

It’s not got long, either. The prima ballerina in my mind is doing pirouettes around memories and her pointe is not strong enough to save herself from falling more than once. Each time she lets her heel touch the ground it wrecks another portrait of what I thought happy felt like or what it meant and now it looks like a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces and nobody in the world seems to care as much as I do about the empty spaces.
I am the empty space, I think. I am the empty void that is overflowing with fountains of well-wishes and promises of what could have been and should have been but I am an empty space that is being designed into a graveyard. Inside hope finds its final resting place and I think the new world order will be aligned when finally I succumb to the mass and accept I belong there too. I am the lesson that they teach about could have been but will never be, and everyone has something to learn from.

Lessons are lesions, mostly. Grooves carved into my mind, which in turn corpse themselves into four major categories; pain, loneliness, grief and false hope. The last is the most lethal of all because the proceeding leave no room for question but the last? The last allows for slips in the armour and the infection to spread from the mind to the heart and no amount of Ibuprofen can cure that. All you can do is restore factory settings and try again but it’ll never feel new again.

The stage is set, the top offenders have front row seats. That prima ballerina is still fumbling through the wreckage and salvaging nothing from the warfare. It’s just a matter of time before the show is over, before the dust settles and the hecklers come rolling in uninvited in their various hues of desperation and brutal honestly. The crowd are placing bets on if she’ll have a final bow.

It doesn’t look likely this time.

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© Robin Barratt