It looks like she’s sleeping, smiling
in dreams built from the summers
we spent by the sea.
I thought she’d been cured
by my giving and caring…
… but a glass-heart like hers
can never be mended…
… or duct-taped…
… waiting for fault-lines to open
and break her apart.
Now curled like a kitten —
she’s wax-pale and stiff,
not in the orange of visiting hours,
she’s free from the reeking of prison
but stuck in her arm
she claimed she had tossed…
… and later I learned of the cause
at the hands of her uncle.
After reading the entry for Rochelle and her comment on rhyming on orange I realized that I had to bring in a syringe which is at least a half-rhyme to orange. I will try to return comments latest on Sunday. Time is flying and lots of things to do at work.
Friday fictioneers is a challenge to write a story in any form you like as long as you let the picture inspire you and you use 100 words. Rochelle keeps us together and sets the example with her own writing.
What is a Wednesday without a little Friday?
January 16, 2019