I’ve knitted a shroud.
Or perhaps sewn is the right word.
Dollar store linen and bone-white thread beginning at my purple feet, past my arthritic knees and swollen stomach, onto my weeping breasts and blackened throat.
My knuckles knitting my sins into seclusion and shadow
once the smell becomes toxic,
I will be found.
See? You don’t need a ton of words to tell a good, creepy, screwed up story. Fifty-five words – maybe even less – is sometimes all it takes.
Perhaps I should publish a collection. 🤔