This pretty pink ribbon
coils like a snake in my hand
its power conserved like a spring
waiting to strike and bite
with the venom of
a true story.
This simple pink ribbon
slides through my fingers
a silky glide of flesh-coloured celuloid
a hundred rose-tinted frames
of nostalgic nightmares.
This taut little ribbon
binds my beating heart
like a captive package
its knots dig into
the sore spots
of fictions I write.
This whispering pink ribbon
mine and yet not mine
is a reminder of how little
time or distance matter
as long as you hold tight
to its tale.