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Weekly Contest #294
Trigger warning: Spousal death. I don’t know how to write anything but prose poems. It’s five PM and the sun’s almost set—you know as well as I do that we’ve got miserable winters up here. The icy blue china’s been chipped for months now, and no one’s bothered to sweep up the shards in the corner. I guess that would have to be me now. It all hits me again and again in sharp breaths nearly every time I almost manage to forget. If I’m honest, it’s paralyzing.I can do one thing. I can feed the goats. I got them because they stared out at me fro...
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