Threadbare
By ML Strijdom
I am her ballet pointe shoe, shaped by pain. But I live only for you, Violin.
Nightly, she smashes my toe-box with a hammer, bending me to cradle her sharp bones. Her fingers smear glue, moulding me to her desire. She stabs me with steel, threading ribbons to wrap around her sculpted ankles.
I will bind to her if it means you’ll play.
She slides her feet inside me and I’ll bear her weight. Friction forces me to rise, anticipating your next tune. Your symphonies spill over me, drowning out the ache.
She soars with each note while you play in your quartet. And I, the puppet in a broken frame, serve her every leap. Play your lyrics so I can spin to your beat. She moves for the crowd, but I move for you.
A string of beads snaps from her costume and clatters across the floor.
I step on it; my heel catches, twisting her toes.
Pop.
Her foot jerks.
Fabric rips, and
gravity
pulls
me
down.
She screams and your notes collapse. And I, her servant, am to blame.
I’m ripped off her, as if I bit her on purpose, and dangled in the air, carried like a traitor to my end.
Hovering over a bin, tangled in sweaty silk, I fall into darkness.
Amidst the garbage, I still hear you play.
Practicing alone.
My heart, stitched with grief and glue, swells with your sound. Even discarded, I would break again for one more note. For you.
ML Strijdom is a South African medical professional and emerging writer, crafting stories in her second language. Her work was recently recognized with an Honourable Mention in the Tenth Writers Playground Competition, published in Livina Press, Scifi-Shorts, Instant Noodles, Westword, Flash Phantoms and Starspun Lit.