There is a death that festers in the unworded.

I consider cutting my hair four times, watch my face contort in tears and redden, punch the wall and scrape a small piece of pinky skin.

My period cramps me.

The little birds bounce across the cage and rub and peck their beaks to each other, creating the sweetest sounds.

In a repressed mood of visceral memories I google NSFW questions.

If I don’t finish The Origins of Totalitarianism I cannot leave Winnipeg.

I feel useless and I’m lonely.