In this space.
I feel safe.
No one can hurt me.
But everyone can, you see.
What is this space?
You may ask.
It’s a wonderful place.
Filled with candy and grace.
Who knew such a spot?
With Terry and his top.
Blue as the sky.
Cloudy as his eye.
This space, is my space.
No one can change my space.
Because my space is a good place.
You skim through this.
We are almost at the end,
look at us go.
I will miss this space.
It will always be my place.
I bid you farewell,
and a wellest of lucks on your quest.
About the Creator
Emily Strouse
i'm trying okay.
follow my ig: @spookyheyitshide
Keep reading
More stories from Emily Strouse and writers in Poets and other communities.
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.