There is a voice in my head, it’s me of course…but sometimes she, (I) can be mean.
Who does she think she is, this me who puts me down and makes me question my every move, every word, every thought even?
I don’t want to discuss things with her anymore. If only she had encouraging, comforting assurances, or simply listened and heard without judgment…
I have a right to enjoy myself and my freedom from that kind of negativity!
I can control her, whenever I want to.
It is long past time.
Why is she still talking?
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One Minute to Noon
“OK, guys!” I screech over the macaw-like chatter in my sophomore English class. My students are sharing mementos they accumulated during summer vacation. The assignment is to interview each other and write an expository essay about another student’s treasure: Misty’s coquina shells and sand dollars from Florida, Ruth’s two Navajo pottery mugs from New Mexico, Roxy’s perfume from Paris, Kevin’s chocolate from Hershey Pennsylvania, a picador’s sword from a bullfight in San Fermin Spain, where one of my favorite students, Manny Pérez, ran with the bulls at festival.
By Lacy Loar-Gruenler4 days ago in Fiction
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