She waits 

And waits

And watches the little bubble pop up and disappear on the screen

She is practically holding her breath in anticipation of the words tucked behind the three little bubbles 

Might he reference the night they spent together not too long ago 

And spill out elaborations of love and desire 

Or will he respond with excuses to never cross her again

She waits

The screen drenches her in its light as she sits alone in her dark bed, her mind tumultuous with cascading expectations 

The bubble disappears

No response yet

She returns the phone to the nightstand and lay there in her bed

Feeling alone and unable to sleep

Seeking no less than the comfort the bubbles may bring 

The crisp sound of a bell cuts through the stiff, yet pungent air. She tenses up in cruel anticipation, trapped in her Pavlonian nightmare. 

She has tried to keep track of time, but time itself has become elastic, if for no other purpose but to prolong her torture.

The cold stone walls seem to inch closer with each passing moment, becoming more oppressive, and the sterile steel she is bound to seems to mock her with its touch. She tries to seek solace in her memories, when touch was sensual and solitude invited, but cannot see beyond her betrayal and heartbreak.

A loud hissing sound issues from behind, and suddenly electricity is snaking throughout her and her steel bounds, and then everything is just pain and burning flesh.

It stops.

She can't help but wonder if it is her or agony that is his twisted inamorata.

The bell rings again.

It's funny how the most beautiful things are the most

susceptible to break;

A hollow shell boasts polished exterior

painted with intricacies

perfected by the rituals of daily life

all products of a cosmetic revolution

designed to buff and polish and conceal

what cannot be wished away

But under the same incandescent light

we are all yellow

and tired

and frail;

Held together by our aspirations that one day

after the most extravagant metamorphose

we will finally be released from the glue of insecurity

and so that we may fall apart

to rebuild once again

so that we are not quite so hollow

and perhaps everything will ok

Because the truth is

eventually

our porcelain exteriors will shatter and break

or become dull alongside the processes of age

And one may see through the porcelain walls we built

to conceal the brittle entity that is human nature

riddled with its imperfections

which no cosmetic blanket can hide

And

eventually

once all our exteriors have fallen

into dusty porcelain pieces at our feet

we will realize that we are the same

asymmetric and unpredictable

yet beautiful and strong

and  filled with the humanity we suppressed

which made us weak