Empty cages

Empty cages

We carried on getting high and drunk way into Sunday, and Sunday just didn’t matter anymore, and neither did Monday and Tuesday, and what mattered less was what everyone was saying and doing. It didn’t matter that I’d lost my top, or that people had come and gone and that we’d shifted to another room. I didn’t know these people. …

Occult

Tongue

“I write to prisoners” she says, trying to shock or intrigue me. She nods towards the letters, open and pinned, boring like butterflies, to a cork board near her odd little writing desk. I could have guessed this kind of self-made nuance about her, had I spent the time to think of her more than somewhere to sleep that wasn’t …