The swings hung with only chains to support them; their bitter souls trapped inside metal curls and twists. My eyes traveled up the edges of the two treehouses, glued to the trees' branches, no escape, no way out.
"How do you speak these words with utter flawlessness, despite the lingering despondency? How can you stitch them all together to create such a wonderfully written piece of art? It's as if I can feel these carefully built stanzas seething its way to the most vulnerable part of me," I whispered as my voice was carried away with the bits of dandelion seeds. My fingers wrapped around the tiny stem of clover as I twirled it from side to side. "It isn't fair."
"What's not fair?" Her voice protruded through my static focus on the clovers; how can one clover have so much luck, so much more meaning just because it has another leaf stemming from its side?
"It isn't fair how I'm begging to be sad forever so someday, it will drive me towards the edge, and here you come, with your words and stupid wisdom, that gets me eventually thinking about not climbing that tree over there and using that rope, buried underneath four steps to the right of the swings, and using it altogether."
"Well, it isn't just my fault, you know," she began, a smile tinted her voice.
"Oh, here you go," I shook my head as I sat down on the swing, to have it creak underneath my weight. I kicked my feet as hard as I could, feeling myself fall back into gravity, to not be caught, to float in a world free of misery.
YOU ARE READING
therapy
Short Story"they told us that we needed therapy, as if medication and tainted words could fix broken toys."
