The Kids Don't Stand A Chance

The heart shaped locket has started to rust, with powders and perfumes, in a wooden jewelry box from lifetimes past. A box, which has sat on different dressers but consumed the same necessities, now glows in a diffused sun while the owner searches, waiting to hold an earring or charm and glide into corner booths, long sunset drives, and metal mountain top views. This box has seen more secrets than the fullest of hearts. The gold band engraved in silver, with diamonds holding future failures and apologies not so lightly forgiven. The silver feathers from a woman who remains a mystery, fallen far before she fell. Birthday gems. Stolen birds. Jade circled like eternity. And nestled inside of the caverns sits a heart, not touched in years. Silver, worn and tarnished from a million uniform finger smudges. A single amethyst teardrop landed on the front. It has become hard to open and close because of the years of over use, of nervous clicking, of the powder and filth which have become caught in the hinges. The owner holds it now, in a pale palm, before refilling it with the messy past and slipping it into her new purse, neat, clean and solitary.