Bruised
The creek of a floorboard echoing through the hall or the quiet squeal of a mouse in the corner of a room. The log cabin hidden deep within the woods with a muddy doormat all have walked over. A leather jacket hung on the coat rack with a button that went missing. The scent of cinnamon turns to char. A thrifted dress was left behind. The log cabin wasn’t built to last long, yet that hazelnut hair still stings like a thorn. But as leaves fall to the autumn floor and the grandfather clock strikes again, that stinging feeling fades as a freshly stuffed teddy bear swallows me. The rope that tied me up suddenly breaks and my body is bruised. But bruises heal.
The creek of a floorboard echoing through the hall or the quiet squeal of a mouse in the corner of a room. The log cabin hidden deep...