Wrists And Handcuffs
I do not let people touch my wrists.
Talking To My Inner Child
There is a little girl who sits alone in the alleyway of a crowded city. It stinks of gasoline.
A Scene
I wove my hands through my long, red hair as she drove us home. I paused when I found what I searched for: a section of burnt hair, touched by embers blown into my face by a well-timed gust of wind.
Protecting An Uncaged Animal
I am a child in a bedroom with a door that does not lock. I am wrapped around the girl I like, willing that They do not enter unannounced.