She smells like burning matches and she feels like an aged duvet cover.

Comforting but worrying.

A lack of care

A removal of worry over small events

Everything is overwhelming or disregarded.
Her tights pull at small hairs around her ankle

Snapping elastic as everything is put back correct

Put back proper
Clinging to something that hasn’t meant anything for such a long, slow age.

A year passes and months are just confusing numbers that she counts on her fingers.
At least she hasn’t fixed herself to a designated spot,

But the isolation of the fixation becomes a flood of anxiety

A stone on her heel


A maggot under the armchair.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s