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Friday at 9:55
The thing was, she couldn't stop worrying about her teeth.
Meanwhile, the kids on TV were alright in the kitchen.
And somewhere online, in a sober social media group, a woman asked for relief.
The thing was, he had one rule about poetry.
And my rhymes were refractory — my momentum moderate, my words worthless.
But somewhere in time, my self esteem grew, like roots busting through the earth into a tree.
The thing was, she couldn't stop thinking about all the things — dreams and paper rings; cats always circling; the urge to stand up and sing; worries about what any moment will bring; all the things — titantic like time and tiny like tacks, twisted into turmoil, ready to be tucked in.
