May 24, 2004

It hangs heavy, pulling at my shoulders � the crux of life�s design. Meticulously carved, intricately placed � wrapped around the circles of my eyes.

I will always see. I will always know.

You made it this way � to keep me under the pressure of your hands. Will there always be strings for you to pull; strings to play like the minstrel�s harp? Is that what I am? Your instrument to tell a story?

Oh, how interesting this story has become.

I am a caged bird who cannot sing. Mute. The larynx you ripped out holds the song. An organic music box that no longer winds. Broken. I am. You wanted to be.

Instead, you must paint the words onto a canvas of stretched flesh with the bones.

What does YOUR picture hold?