Literature
this isn't a love story
We lay in bed, him and I, on white bed sheets that shone with the morning sun. Our bones were locked together, a mess of legs and arms and pale white skin, the only way they could tell us apart was the freckles which kissed every part of his body. And my ebony hair which splayed across his stomach like ink spilt on a clean canvas. We were beautiful in our own way, with hollowed cheek bones and split lips. Yes, we were beautiful.
Sergeant Petal had nightmares about us. He would wake up in the night sweating, shaking and screaming until his wife pulled him into her breasts and rocked him slowly back to sleep. I always liked the idea of hauntin