i wasn’t sure i was even up for any of it. the glare of thin ice over the landscape of my slow bones. footsteps in the snow take the longest time; they march heaviness in my chest. this tilted gray daylight is deceiving. rustles of brush, eclipses the barren images of leaving. two fine pale women through a window, sipping tea. wide eyes. chipped teeth. the gold-laced trimmings of fragility beholden to their throats. couldn’t you have gone a little quieter. it’s the way you left the silence behind, clumping in the sugar bowl. clanging in the air, like screams.
Sobriety Advocate, Writer, Author, Speaker.
Allison Marie Conway 