better to write for myself and have no audience, than to write for you and lose myself

Cheryl

Cheryl sat in the sun.

Pen in hand.

Grasping for the words that kept hiding from her.

She smoked a cigar.

Didnt like it

but by a hard held fantasy of routine

continued.

Distracted by her distaste.

She never did find her alphabet.

Inside

Wolves