At this time of year

Illustrated by Samantha Fulton. 

At this time of year the trees were like bundles
of nerves on thick trunks. 

They were skeletal and terrifying, but
decorated the disembowelled buildings
beginning to appear from far away. 

Unless she went for a walk that day,
there was a boundary between the
mush of her mind and the nervous
system that was gavotting in the wind. 

She did not go for
a walk that day. 

Instead, she focussed
on the hollow jeans
curled up like a cat in
the corner of her
room. Of her skull. 

A dead blue cow
hanging limply from her
door frame. 

Shoes encrusted
with mud and dust.
Grimly mocking her. 

The indentation
of her form on
her mattress. A
permanent
fixture now. 

A shoelace In a
constant state Of
action 
And inaction. 

Her nostrils flaring,
crammed with the
pungent smell of
tedium that no
draught was granted
entry to neutralise. 

These things
consumed her. 

Seeped through
every pore in her. 

She could do nothing
but idly gaze upon the
rubble of her existence
in which she partook. 

And maybe later she would think about going for that walk. 

Later.