Writer
It’s hard to know
The word for it, because
If
The repeated no, leave off, stop it
Were too quiet
If, because they’d history
She’d invited him in
The heavy body
He’d walked her home
That the word
She felt, like sand under nails
Was wrong
She had, no bruise, no swelling, was alright
But.
Except for the blind thudding in her chest
And the sense
That her voice had been balled up and chucked away with the dirty sock
He’d used to quiet her tongue.
I am a writer and academic. I lecture in English Literature and Creative Writing, but mostly I'm reading and... writing. View all posts by heidijames
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Third year universty student. Budding journalist and professional procrastinator.
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Heidi James
Precision, concision, depth.
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Thank you x
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Reblogged this on Lost in The World Map.
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Thank you!
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Loved reading this thankss
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