A small patch of rescued flowers, a garden within a wilderness, a little group of powdery bluebells, one red and yellow, straight-up tulip, a scattering of pale purple campions.
It started badly, his hand, bulging with anger Gripping mine too tight Pulling me to the car Slamming the door, (in a way I was always told not to) Screeching on hot tires, gravel spurting
Tap, tap, tap, on the back of my hands. I’m jumpy as a box of frogs as the images start. This is my third session but I don’t know if it’s helping yet.