Old habits die hard

I wasn’t listening to the sounds in my head when I walked into the walls of my words that day. I was focused on the tiny vibrations your voice made instead. The flutter it made in the wings of the birds as it flew into my hair when you whisper into my ear that you loved me more. And I believed you … in spurts… until my doubt shattered into tiny spiders again and I scrambled around gathering them together to create some sort of giant breathing bubbling being. To weave a web throughout my tiny pieces enough to resemble some sort of skeleton. 

I often found myself repeating that. Soaring with eagles, then fumbling to the ground like a peasant lapping at spilled water at her masters feet with a rag before he noticed as to not be beaten down again as the fool. I wonder if old habits will always die hard or if I’ll finally break free from them. 

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