Burn Marks

The burning paper leaves
a scent of disappointment
in the air.

It permeates, cuts,
right to the bone.
It stings, it feels like
a tattoo digging into the skin,
digging deeper deeper deeper.

You can taste it,
drag it from the air.
It tastes like bottles
and pizza boxes
from three weeks ago,
it feels like everyone who
ever came into this room,
like everyone who’s ever smoldered
has tapped a bit of themselves
on the floor.

And here they are,
all of them.
The stains don’t go away.

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About DickensianJack

Born in Wolverhampton in November '93, moved to Huddersfield in September 2012. Studying at the University of Huddersfield. In love with the town - simple as that. As for the blog itself, I've been doing bits and pieces of writing (with varying quality) for a few years. A friend suggested I start a blog to share my work. Most of the stuff on here is poems, but there's other work interspersed on the page. Feel free to leave any comments on my work. Twitter: @DickensianJack (Jack Dickens) Facebook: www.facebook.com/dickensianjack Cheers, enjoy.
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