My cuticles are a reflection of myself. Rough around the edges, dry, flaky. Some days I yearn to be polished, smooth and neat A pearly pink, glowing with health.
It was an accident, she says I didn't mean to, honest. I count to ten. I promise myself This will be the time I keep control. The shattered porcelain bowl litters the floor,
She’s proud in her own way The rabbit crouched, its resting form Adorned with carrots on the plate. I still sense its living warmth. You can see the field from our house