Burnt Jasmine

Pen marks of an aspiring writer

She was from a small village in a small district, and it had sunk its scent into her skin. She was five at the time of the move – just old enough to remember, just young enough to pretend she did. At night in the split second between the flutter of her lashes on her thin cheeks and the dark pit of unconscious terror she could see the sweep of blue and crystal silk swimming around curried ankles to a pulsing rhythm then sigh and slip into sleep from which she would wake screaming an hour and a quarter later. Of course no one knew this, sometimes not even herself, and so silk always surprised her with the way the fabric would slide into that locked place behind her eyes.

I wouldn’t meet her until years later, after everything, and she would stand before me completely unclothed daring eyes tracing…

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