Two hits on the head hurts.
I crawl back to my dark hole, swallowing my tears for lunch.
Back to the messy papers, the never unfinished pieces.
I hate feeling like this.
So I grab a mirror and force myself to smile but...
"Nah, you gotta do better."
I try again, this time entreating some brief sweet moments
"Yup, much better. It's not the end of the world girl."
I'm not so pretty, But I don't like my frowning face, and now I feel a bit better.
There's always tomorrow, even if it takes another four years for another dawn to rise.
hits on heads are of two types
1. Physical
2. Mental
About the Creator
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munsona day ago in Fiction
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