Handkerchief

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I wrote this when I was cleaning my room and I found le ex’s hanky. dun dun dun dun….

********************
Handkerchief. That handkerchief. That red tribal-printed handkerchief was all he left her; was all she kept. She threw everything away; those gifts, those letters, those poems, those promises, except for that handkerchief.

To tell you honestly, he didn’t give her the handkerchief. She stole it form him. Or maybe he knew she took it. He just didn’t bother getting it back from her.

That’s what he did. He stole her. He robbed her of her innocence and she gladly gave it away. Was it still stealing?

Memory. At some point, a stimulus will cross her path and activate those neurons in her brain to tap the black box of forbidden and ill-forgotten dreams. Like a movie reel, the past plays before her like an unstoppable force of reckoning.

That handkerchief. That red tribal-printed handkerchief. She is burning it.
*******************

Have I ever written anything not sad? I dunno. I suck at writing happy things. >_<

But what do you think?
Peace out!

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