C-L-S

I’m not sure which is worse, having my hair torn out everyday and markers drawing ‘makeup’ on my face, having a dog chew on my arm and a toddler chew on my leg.

William doesn’t talk to us anymore.

He left us in the closet when he moved out of the house.

Time tears at our gentle fabric skin.
 

William won’t let us go in his head.

I made tea this morning.

I put the leaves in, watching the steam dance with childlike wonder.

I returned to my laptop, staring at a half finished chapter, the bags under my eyes more apparent than ever.

I’m afraid of the dark

And the art

I haven’t made

The places not stayed

And the overstayed welcomes I

Know not to inhale the stratosphere keep

Both feet on the ground

And look straight ahead