He had a thirst he picked up the first container emptynot a drop leftfrantic he began to search the househe turned on the faucet placing his mouth beneathit was murky and brownhe spit it out he could feel the rust on his tongue he dug his nails in the back of his throatthose bastards weren’tContinue reading “He had a thirst.”
I’m prone to bouts of anger, short tempered, the overly sensitive type. Writing is a way to make sense of it all. While art is a way in which I can escape the thoughts that haunt me shutting off conscious thought and allowing my hands to guide me.
