They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul. Yours are soft, brown, reassuring and gentle. Meltingly innocent, surrounded by a fringe of dark lashes and framed by arched brows, you have eyes that people drown in.
You collect the hearts of women. No, don’t shake your head; I know it’s true. It’s one of your favourite hobbies. I can sense them, in this room, the ghosts of past lovers, still crooning empty words of passion. Here I am, in this palace of phantoms: Miss Lamb, spotless, sacrificial; I feel no fear. I have found you out, and I will never let you lock my heart away. I have seen the cage you are preparing for me, and I wont deny it is beautiful; but I do not want to be a caged lark. I want to be able to fly.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. I can hear them beating, in and out of time. Have you grown deaf to their whispered thunder, is that why you want mine, because you can no longer hear the others? Mine beats so loudly only because it is safely contained within my chest. It was never yours to take; it is mine to give. You drown me in words, muffling my ears to the wailing of your ghosts, blinding me, trying to strike me into dumb acceptance. But I will not be your beautiful plaything, to be captured and locked away, brought out only on a rainy day. I will never let you put my heart in a glass case.