Gratitude (Free Write)

I toss my tantrums to the apricot walls with last year’s toys, their nicked batteries splaying in transient stains across the whisky tiling. Leak in Christmas ribbon crimsons, desperate¬†innards shimmering in gaudy tissue. Of course, I call this crying. I tear at my own gears like gutting pumpkins; I squelch like a rotten gourd. Of course, I can’t call this crying. The frontal lobe sneaks out in the guise of melting crayons, skinned like the shadows of runaways and their coughing grey trains. I am a child. Thank you for the womb. I¬†wasn’t good today. Thank you for the goo.

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