Writing

That… aroma!

It envelopes the summer breeze with the purity of ripe, succulent pineapple. But… not just pineapple chunks? Pineapple sorbet, with a tinge of six-minute-old waffle cone.

I say I hate her

That I would do anything to get rid of her.

But she is one of my oldest friends

She has always been there me

Never once leaving me alone

She hates herself

She knows she needs to open up

But her mind won’t let her 

Her heart begs to talk to someone  

I.

A small brush of fingers,

Biting your lips to stop a smile,

Choking on the words,

Dancing late under streetlights,

Everything could change with one slip,

Find my waist, feel my heartbeat,

Watch the fire through wavy glass 

See the shadows 

Bury the past 

Gaze upon distorted flames 

Glowing embers 

Burning names  

I am the forgotten dead.

I have no friends and no roof over my head.

I am the forgotten girl that you only hear about in stories and books.