Thunk.
The leather satchel popped open. His eyes widened. Messy contents on the floor. A buried brother, boyfriend, parents, people. More. A divorce, a couple of kids. Broken hearts and dampened souls. All things touched. All things stained. His eyes strained at the sight and the door slammed tight in his wake. Thunk. She straightened her slacks, scooped up the leather sack, and fastened the dead bolt behind him. Thunk.
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I've got nothing for you.
Dead knuckles scraping scarlet bubble tiles while scrubbing shadows off my soul. I've got nothing for you. I try. I gasp. I want to. I want to give myself. But this girl who tried more times to count, is stuck on a shelf. In the shift. In the divide. In the outcrops. Lacy serenade. Wafting perfume parade. Smooth legs in the bedroom. A daydream gone boom. I've got nothing for you. |
AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |