She won’t talk about love with me anymore, the therapist.
I’ll not mention it again. Even here.
I don’t want to open, close my eyes: you’re every colour.
Nothing makes sense. I’m supposed to be here
completely—everything should have happened as it did.
But it shouldn’t have, too. What do we do now?
I could pull my skin off nearly all the time.
ashley dunn 
Leave a comment