You look at all my little trinkets and say “How pretty!” Then you give me a beautiful box to keep them in. A box that you carved one afternoon as the radio played your favourite song. But I have a confession – these trinkets that you find pretty and think of as adornment for my body? Well, they’re far from it. They are nothing but the sordid betrayers of my soul. They leap out at you when you least expect, exposing all the dark, damp corners that you haven’t been privy to yet. And they turn me into a sadist when I’m around you. The silver anklet on my left foot thinks of different ways to bruise you. From scratching your ankles when you lock your feet with mine, to pockmarking your wrists as you pull me out of bed. The thick chain around my neck longs to strangle you as you bury your face inside my chest. The thin bangle on my right wrist wants to leave lasting impressions on the back of your neck as I lead you to my thighs. And that tiny ring on my left hand is plotting to poke you in the eye when you lean in closer to taste my lips. I don’t trust them, these dirty, pretty things. They want nothing more than to bruise and brand you with their surreptitious sheen. And just like those twisted thoughts inside my head, they plan to ensnare you with their charms, making sure you never leave. No, I wouldn’t trust them if I were you.