Rachel

We're good at making things fit. The day grown soft from pain. Grown fragile and necrotic at the edges. The hurt in my body is not centered. I can feel it everywhere, snaking a brutal seduction through my limbs. The way certain adjectives feel on my tongue. I taste words again and again. Malady. Milady. Meanwhile the objects wait. The blue satin curtains with fringe tassels. The sad, leftover slant of the pillow. The ache in me, sinuous. Its endless, indelible perfume.