Photo by Cassie Boca on Unsplash
Breathe freshly picked milk,
I die alone in my room.
I do it often.
About the Creator
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More stories from Titania Sterl and writers in Poets and other communities.
Tobacco Stain
Under her bed, she peeked around at the room and her plan: open window, cloth hanging from the ledge with items hidden or knocked over as if they had been packed away in a hurry. Jerking at every noise, she covered her mouth, reminding herself that this was an old house and not every sound signalled a meaty hand, fingers blackened over time, stained with tobacco. However, the next creak cautioned exactly that, with unsteady footsteps stumbling up the stairs.
By Titania Sterl2 months ago in Poets
Comments (1)
Fantastic! Well written!