Day Three Hundred.


Izzy circle


she runs at night like there has never been an axe murderer or a serial rapist on the loose
she runs like her muscles are knots, ropes and pulleys
she runs like she’s following a huge straining sail and it’s just salt and sweat and wind and her


Sarah circle


She clenched her fingers til the bones rose to the surface of her skin like chicken in a soup pot, cruel and white and vicious. Her back felt spined as she arched, bucked against the perverse hospital cornered starched white bed. She bellowed hot red sounds and felt the body between her thighs come snaking into the world, crowned with a coronet of cold. The nurses began wiping the child clean of the thick gunk that coated him, but she shook her head, had him laid filthy on her slick breasts. She hissed love at him through a newly forked tongue and blinked too many eyelids, lazy with contentment, in the flickering fluorescent haze.



Have words to throw back at us?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s