mailbox

it’s raining, but the driveway is hot under her feet. her clothes are revealing: tight shirt and pants pulled from the back of the closet, where they’ve laid discarded for the past two years. maybe if she accentuates her every [nonexistent] curve he will throb with desire and realize he still loves her. the thought of anyone else’s hands on her makes her sick. rocks from the road cut into her feet, and she realizes she is sad. but it’s a hopeful kind of sad. the kind of sad that just takes time.

Tagged as prose