I used to keep your picture by my bedside. I never framed it because you warned me of the day you'd hurt me and I'd decide to throw the frame across the room. You can't bear to risk the shards on my delicate skin when all it has known was tender lips. But you never warned me of fire. And I burnt to black every memory of you I had in the flames. I almost jumped in too.
YOU ARE READING
Trinkets
PoetryIf you want to read without the commitment, this is the perfect book for you. You can open it and read a few excerpts once in a while, or you can read it in one go. The entries here have various themes which may confuse readers as it confused the wr...
