I’m no good at this either: I’m strung thin, wrung out and wondering what to say. I noose you with loose meaning, scared to pin down my scheming because you don’t want to know what I think of what we don’t want to think about.
If I could be better I would and I’d do what I could not to cry when we are wound up in thoughts we try to share but don’t dare to explain because we know how they wound and we don’t want to do it again.
2 thoughts on “Wrung through”
I read it fast! Then I read it slow.
Rhyming in prose is one of my favourite ever techniques so naturally I like. Second paragraph lost me a bit with all the looping and weaving, but you probably intended that.
This is about me, isn’t it? Like everything you write, except that one story you know what I’m talking about 😛
Of course, where else would I look for inspiration but over the top of four well-decorated monitors? (the orange doesn’t count)