She sits perfectly still. She is full to the brim and the slightest movement will make her spill over in a hot flood. If the dam breaks she may empty herself out in one great rush, leaving a gasping husk hollow and undone. The tears that slide down her cheeks and snake into the crease of her lips make her mouth round with salt.
She is falling to pieces again and again. Her love falls away like tulip petals, dropping softly from the drooping stem.
She is a matryoshka doll, twisted apart by careless hands. There at the centre the small solid self, wrapped in cracked layers of lost love and forgotten dreams. This is the time when she is broken again. The wrenching pain of a dislocation that shatters her and rebuilds her. It is never familiar. She will always carry the scar of the wound, buried deeper and deeper in the nested memories.
One day she will be a whole doll, a perfect egg, all the unlocking miniatures cradled inside.
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