nepasavaler

When the lights are out and the house is quiet, when yesterday's clothes are strewn about and the only sound's the creaky picket fence, when everyone's asleep, I finally wake up. I go through my routine: drink tea from my favorite cup, read a magazine - stories on deep sea creatures (ghostly and alien-like), fold the still unsorted clean linen, with stitched-in names, Mike and Jane, names I don't quite remember. I go through the drawers and smell the bunches of lavender tucked between the shirts, his n' hers. Sometimes I get close to the beds (on my tippy toes though no one can hear me) and watch the children slumber, thei

I can't get off this merry-go-round. Every time I try to dismount the horse I nearly tumble to the ground. So I hold on for dear life; the sound of the carousel becomes a dizzying force. I can't get off this merry-go-round. Like a fox hiding from bloodhounds, I am frozen. I have no recourse. I nearly tumble to the ground. From every side I am surrounded; I search for an exit, I cry myself hoarse. I can't get off this merry-go-round. So there it is, my life an endless circle - I'm bound to keep repeating the same mistakes. I can't change course - I'll certainly tumble to the ground. Worse than the old dreams in which I drowned,

I cried myself to sleep last night, the muffled sobs were dampening the pillow, tears expanding into lakes - and then, a light shone through the window - a sprite descending from the sky. Her green translucent wings paused between each fluttering to slow her flight. She landed gently on the sill, the steady rhythm of her wings echoing my whimpering coming to a standstill. The sprite held out her glowing white wand and whispered words, serene and kind, and stars shot out, a scene from another world, a sight I couldn't, wouldn't miss. I willed my eyes to dry and caught the sprinkling stars on my tongue like falling snow until

My favorite teacup has a crack in it, a hairline fracture stained brown by all the tea I drink in it. Sometimes I wonder if the tea will seep through, if the cup will be forever half empty, but I still use it. I study each of the painted ravens flying on the rim, ready to take off into the air. One day, I took the cup and poured some tea - earl grey - and stirred the sugar in. I tapped the spoon on the edge of the cup - it made a chiming sound. I brought the cup up to my mouth and drank. I hit a snag - a tiny chip cut my lip. Blood dripped down my chin and into the tea. The sharp sting and iron smell overwhelmed me. I