She is a porcelain doll, but when dropped she doesn't break. A cold blizzard seeps from her skin. I stare at her freezing face with love in my eyes and desperation in my heart.
The torture of a broken connection is the pain that nags, is the hell that haunts. It is the gremlin that scared away my sleep this awful night and put my health on hold.
It's hard to a kill a feeling after it has taken root. Immune to the hoe, augmented by poison, it is a most persistent weed.
It runs amok in the soul's garden and strangles the roses.
Since it can't be killed it must be fenced in a private corner and guarded by barren rock. There it may stay, waterless and unflourishing, while the other feelings continue their growth.
Only then will the porcelain doll lose its voodoo. Only then will it shatter when dropped upon the pavement of peace.
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