You feel the soft, feathery ashes on your fingertips as they drift in the leaden morning air
You rub the blackness between your fingers watching it smudge your clear skin
You kick away charred pieces that are nauseating and sweet, putrid and steaky. The smell is so thick you can taste the layers over your tongue.
As you walk away, you never seem to realise the cost of your burning
YOU ARE READING
Unturned stones
AléatoireI speak for those who can't, won't, shouldn't, etc. I also speak for myself. Because why the heck not?
