I’m blowing on my arm to look at the goose bumps, so I have a texture to look at and distract me. Come back to me.
It’s such a comfort to complain.
There’s a mole on the inside of my left boob. I think you could use it to identify my body if someone cut off my head.
I had a plan for the afternoon. I was going to want to read, then read.
I started working. I don’t write anymore; I have to work. I had to write before.
I want to find the perfect thing on accident.
The car needs gas. He berates. I can’t believe the car needs more gas. You’d almost think it’s burning it.
I just want to hold you. Hold me. I want to be a person who wants to be held.
A train drives by the house a couple blocks away. Thunder coming, or wheel turning, could go either way. I miss living where the bugs sounded louder than the cars.
She sleeps in my presence. She trusts me then.
Tacky decorations pretend to be found by farmhouse garage sales.
My dementia-brain grandmother helps me understand people with thick accents. It takes patience to think you understand someone else.
He asks me, when he calls, about exact topics of worry and concern. They live on a checklist on the back of a Denny’s receipt. Is she healthy? Is she working? Does she need money? Then that’s it.
I hate to laugh at young people’s mistakes of inexperience. I did not want to be made fun of. I wanted the information to do it right, the way everyone else does, the first time.
You don’t need more food.