Pulse

Your worst nightmare. Her eyes bulging, her hair cackling, her small frame illusioned in your mind – Red. Your pulse quick and shooting through your neck, your jugular rushes blood from your skull, you’re losing fighting faint. Shrieks and screams muffled below a thousand sea. She’s on the brink of striking you with talons – you know she could. [You want to be better, don’t get trapped again.] Her tirades feed on your paralysis. Tethering you in the corner of her A to Z adorned master bedroom is her favorite game. You’ve lost – your mother has beaten you with branding iron.

1/30/12

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