I must be crazy to take you back, but this’ll be the last time. The absolute last time. Not like the other times. It’ll be different this time. I mean it. You say you’ve changed and can’t live without me. Ok, I’ll let you back in my life. But from now on, I don’t want any more of your hollow apologies. I’m serious when I say I’m done being trivialized and made to feel stupid.

Although your unfulfilled promises are stockpiled in my mind, I will give you one, and only one, more chance to not break my heart again.

I’d be pretty durned crazy if I talked to my dog, wouldn’t I? I mean, talked to him like he was a person?

Pretty… durned… crazy!

But it would be crazier still if I thought he could understand, if I believed he was actually responding to my idiocy. Wouldn’t it?

Like this morning, when I whispered, “That woman on the bench there sure is hot. I wish we could meet someone like her!”

And Jolly immediately trotted over, sat at her feet, and shot her dead with the sad eyes.

That’d be pretty crazy, huh?

Yes, Sir-ee.

Pret-ty… durned… crazy!

They all think I'm pretty crazy, safely tucked away up here in my attic. But I still can hear the rumblings and stumblings of those out and about below me. Fools! They’ll never find me, and that’s just fine. I’m done with all of 'em. I’m done with the world. Maybe one day someone from down there will wonder what’s up here. They might one day lower the disappearing stairway and climb the wobbly steps into my domain. And that’s when they’ll find me. Alone and happy. And covered by a layer of dust. In storage. And out of style.

Brittle nails dragged through coarse soil. Tousled hair like that of a tumbleweed intertwined dirt, debris and rusty blood. Sweat beaded and dropped off, bringing a glow back to the pale, gouged face of her old lover. Brittle nails stroked that cold, firm skin one last time before filling the gap of his lips with more mud. He was always pretty while still. The sun, unforgiving in its glare, heated up the live lover, although that could’ve been the satisfaction of the dead one finally disappearing under the sludge of country fields. The city roads couldn’t provide hunting like this.

The old front porch wooden door— swings opens- revealing a kind of dark, & tall shadowy ghostly figure. Martha steps back, and gasps. “Greg is that really you?” But Greg does not respond…Martha now simply stays in one fixed point, as her body trembles from the sight of a trail of Greg’s blood that is oozing out of his ears, nose, mouth, including his eyes.

Martha finally out of nowhere hears something in the back of her head telling her to run~as fast as her Olympic gold medal marathon legs can go in a matter of decaseconds.

#CORVUS.

Mardi, 20.05.2025

Her hair is the color of autumn leaves

the dead ones that crunch

the ones that float in the air

her lips always pursed

but no value should slip from them

only illegible language

sparkly incantations

she will bring you light like the moon

she can only survive in the dark

her hair is the color of autumn leaves

same resemblance of the trees bark

but she can't bite you no not yet

her crazy is still lodged in her throat

her pretty hides it well just beneath

the smile she duplicated

she is crazy and dead and pretty too.

Fucking birds! Fucking Canada Geese! Every time I go to the library, which is quite often, some goose shits on my car. This only happens at the library. Why? I park at the post office one half mile away with no issues. I don't know if you have ever seen seen a goose poop but it is huge! Then I have to spend $12 at the car wash to clean it off. Go home! You are supposed to be in Canada. And you people - stop feeding them and they will go away.

*thank you mishmash for sparking my brain.

Mother is not a title, but an action. Caring, supporting, loving, this makes a mother. A mother does not have to be blood, just as a blood mother does not automatically earn and keep that title forevermore. When a person becomes so outrightly toxic to their own children, when their behavior is more childlike than their own children, when their actions would not be tolerated by a complete stranger, that person has lost the title, the rights to use that title, the ability to weaponize that title. They are deposed by their own actions and their children bear no guilt.