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.
Regal
Rain dances along the gravel outside the plastered window, dulling the blade of sunlight that cuts through the blinds and rests upon the body of my lover.