'Spin'
By christy
9:00pm. The virago is dead and solace lives on a moon slathered bench hours after this house spins madness like tornados whirling shards of sound from children, appliances, and television till my brain seeps vinegar. Every day is the same, the same, the same, the same. The voices employ my hands to smooth laundry, prepare food, caress little faces to the curve of my belly. My name clicks like a nauseating drum. You smile and say I am paying my dues, but I'd rather just take out a loan. Written December 12th, 2001 © on Dec 12 2001 06:52 AM PST 0 • 10
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"9:00pm...."