Dec 10, 2021
2 min read
PROSE POETRY
The Hate-Blanket
Bitter Comfort
The blanket clutched tight, pulled up chin high. Her clenched hands frozen, unwilling to loosen their grip.
Beautiful, petrified wood.
Drawn up a little more, touching her bottom lip. Straight teeth gnaw, like a rat, at the border. The old blanket tastes of jealousy, loathing, and contempt.
Deep satisfaction.
