Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue.
I remember the ink stains on her hands. She used to write
furiously, unconcerned with the ink.
And had she been living, her mother would have scolded her; a little ashamed of
her daughter and her rough manners.
But I always relished in the sight of ink stained fingers roaming her legs, it
reminded me of her careless youth. Sometimes I deceive even myself into
believing that maybe she wasn't too far gone in the later days when I had to
pay to touch her, in the days when she would wander off only to return hours
later with lipstick smudged and pink bruised skin.
I know I'm sorry for that. I know that she was far gone, that I am far gone;
driving down this road with wheels curving, path winding. I know how far I've
gone, how far I've fallen, how far I will fall for those ink stained fingers
and the hope that the child, innocent as all will forgive me.
Lolita
