The cold of the gun cannon digs into my cheek and my helmet is fastened too tight so I can hardly open my mouth, but these are details of the individual and no longer matter. I cannot be me right now, not for this dance. There is here no I.
creativewriting
Lifting Tupperware Lids
I see the maple-walnut cookies I ate last night, stretching across my ribs in a layer of fat which then pools in the pouch of my lower abdomen, collecting in the hips that swell over the band of the underwear that I bought during a time when I was thinner.
Classroom
Monkeys don’t speak English and the hairy little creatures with their tough young muscles swing around in their chairs, throwing excrement-coloured things and shrieking laughter.
The female doesn’t come anymore
He leaves food lying around now, and that’s great great but he doesn’t as much anymore with the petting or the playing.
under your roof 