Photo by chris robert on Unsplash
I spy with my little I, my ego
I hear its voice — a choice — plucked from the pleura.
I choke on the choke, its spines reserved for the refined palate…I never had a taste for the heart.
Its prickled ends pierce my flesh. I detest!
Its putrid odor, an ode to its owner. Of this skin, I am but a renter.
About the Creator
E.K. Daniels
Writer, watercolorist, and regular at the restaurant at the end of the universe. Twitter @inkladen
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also become a paid subscriber, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.