Omits
I sing the obituaries
I have since I was a child
My father tore that spread from the newspaper
Like a bite from burnt toast
Disgust dripping from buttered fingers
I would scoop it up like a treasure
Each syllable syrup on my tongue
Hello, Mommy
I pulled my cardigan around me as I walked to the shed, the wind slamming the open door repeatedly against its frame. The sun disappeared behind heavy rain clouds, removing all warmth from the air, the cold clawing at me with skeletal fingers that sent goosebumps exploding across my skin.
The shed was pitch black inside.
I glanced back at the house, hoping the bath wouldn’t overflow before I returned.
The Art of Letting Go
silence
and then
listen
in the distance
wind rushes
devours the fields
rush turns to roar
trees groan
leaves prepare branches
It’s time, we’ve got to go
It Ends with Hatchets (A Reflection of Dark Romance)
I don't like writing about romance. Nor do I like reading it. Kyra loved romance. All of it. Dark and grimy like charred honey. Our house was a smattering of her collections, side tables and chairs replaced with piles of characters I could never live up to.
Oh, but I tried.