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.