© DOCKYARD PRESS
by Rabina Orde
i cut her while she was sleeping. a gurgling-wheeze left the hole in her throat.
being in a room with her had never been so quiet. normally, she droned on about how poor my choices were.
i scratched my eyebrow with my thumb; a scratch-patterned blood smear remained.
“choices, the importance of choices,” her voice in my head. i chuckled. it was a poor choice to succumb to the itch; her choice in soap was poor.