Roots (storyteller)


“Are you a teller?”

“Do you mean a confessor?”

“No. I mean a teller. A teller of stories?”

It seems fitting one should stop here and think, am I? Are we?  Someone once encouraged me to be a writer. She was a shield from the world. I hid behind her in fear. 

**********************************

Eyes pierce through tender skin, skin as transparent as vellum. One could see through the intricacies; blood flow and muscle tissue forming that lacked strength. Passersby would watch the skin peel away each day, parting a course for a larger skeleton that housed parts of her most ignored. Everyone but me. I saw more than I wanted to know. 

One in a million (along the seashore 7-11-2017)

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s