Part 1: Margerie Melancholy

I remember the rain that flooded Margerie. Drenched in sadness and distress. The same type of rain that left the gutters in her arms destroyed. Battered and bruised in a watercolor of emotions that stained black and blue on the walls of her skin. Silent treatments spoke volumes, so often I'd find her inaudible. When she spoke, there was this vacancy in the tail of her words. As if her heart was no longer parked alongside the curb of her lungs or held tight against the monkey bars of her ribs. She seemed empty. She was empty. She longed for love. Love never returned her call. To her, love became a myth. Engraved like hieroglyphs on those stone beds of eyelids...