I look at him, I raise the pen between us so I can’t see all of him. “I want to die.” I giggle at him a little. “I want to die.”
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I look at him, I raise the pen between us so I can’t see all of him. “I want to die.” I giggle at him a little. “I want to die.”
I’ve awoken in this forest again.
Under these cedar boughs, shaking dead leaves from my hair, I yawn and rub my eyes.
It’s already late, but sun rays are still finding their way in. The maple grove hidden inside has turned so orange, yellow, and iron red. The season is late too, and so my bones, my joints, my sinew — they all cry out their dread for the snowstorms that are always on their way, always just around the corner.
…
“Why are you so quiet?” one half asks the other.
“I have too much to say.” comes the reply.
“I see.” one responds, feet hanging from the edge, heels clicking against the wall. “You’ve got the right of it. There’s no safety here.”
…
The author and site owner can be reached at leeundercedartrees@gmail.com.