I keep scratching at the scars. Thinking that there scabs, that I can scratch them with my long middle finger nail and they will disappear...
But it doesn't.
And he hated it when I scratched them.
Stop scratching.
Stop scratching.
Stop scratching.
YOU ARE READING
Cold
Short Story#27- flowers 11/21/18 #748- poetry We had this sick fantasy that we could be in love forever. That no one could tear us apart. Well, except ourselves.
