whenever any of us ever said, "i don't care", my mother would reply "don't care was made to care". it was a well-worn warning in our house, but i was always stubborn and i could get myself in such a knotted mess of frustration that her words meant nothing. when i was little, my sister thought the nursery rhyme "there was a little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead and when she was good she was very very good and when she was bad she was horrid" was written about me. i had a temper. a short fuse. i was a middle child. i felt hard done by. my mother struggled with me. i would stamp upstairs, feet throbbing on each step, shouting, throat sore, claiming how unfair it all was, how she didn't love me enough, how she didn't love me the same as my siblings, red-faced,...
When the typewriter finally arrived, I was impatient to begin, but I still took my time to carefully thread the ribbon, then re-arrange my desk & make a cup of tea. Finally,...
fawns at our lungs,
speak to me
in hushed whispers
in afternoon lulls,
prise mysteries apart
on our backs
and fight indulgent sleep.
trace where time
upon my wrist
your words are superficial wounds
but their scratches will scar.
(because i can't leave scabs alone.)
The footsteps above shook old plaster out from between the wooden boards, showering their heads with debris. They had been down there forty minutes and the man showed no sign of...