she always was my
cinnamon girl,
yet she always smelled sweeter,
as if she was something I couldn't
quite
hold onto

and when my hand would tighten around hers,

(I would rather have her in a million pieces)

(than not at all)

those delicate glass fingers fractured
a
..n
...d
f
.e
...l
.....l
crashing into my palm
leaving silver threads of blood

(not my own)

and
she'd just smile through almond eyes

(she knew I had never seen anyone so lovely)