By Calla C. Smith
I have secrets. I warned you that I would only tell you mine if you told me yours. But you never did, so I kept mine in a tight, careful embrace. I handle them like a sharp knife that will cut through my skin and bone, and I brace myself for the inescapable pain every morning.
I try to lock them away, like I locked away the longing to be held like water, slipping through your fingers just when you thought you had me in your grasp. It’s too late now, I know. I’m gone, and you haven’t even noticed yet.
Excellent.
Beautiful prose