she does not speak. People don't know whether to scoff, or to pity, both maybe. Yet she continues, her tongue clicking, her hands swift and nimble, as she cuts up her little heart and neatly wraps each one into a package with a small, small love letter.
Simple words, straight forward and easy to decipher, with meaning so plain and tangible. Her tongue clicks, words still quiet, her fingers folding the envelope so delicately. Scissors lay on the table, for cutting bits and pieces of herself into each small package.
She hopes, with the light of a candle and a flicker of a match stick, that people would notice her silent devotion. Would not scoff, nor pity. Hoped they'd smile and laugh, as they read each part of her; saw each part of her; noticed each part of herβ