And break down. I flee family Christmas dinner.
Glass. Shards. I hear John snort: ‘God, she used to love to cook.’ He’s sorry for my fuss. They comfort him.
To instil hope, he tells them what I’m trying — treatment dripped into my arm. Drug vs. drug.
But the turkey is getting cold. Debate: ‘Go get her?’ Decision: ‘No, let her wallow.’
Yellowish green. Greenish yellow.
‘She’s argues when she isn’t crying,’ John says. Crank.
They laugh, mock, rhyme. How I freaked out at olive oil, am probably in a corner coiled, my silvery holiday dress crumpled tinfoil.
Karen writes in a basement. Her words are in or forthcoming in Scapegoat Review, FlashBack Fiction, Reflex Fiction, Bullshit Lit, Briefly Zine, Versification, Paragraph Planet, and others. She/her.
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