Critiques

I.

As I sat there, the green paint started to take over my body. The stairs felt like they were giving way beneath me. Words were swarming inside my head. I rubbed my temples. The swarming just got worse. I squeezed the space between my right thumb and index finger. The words started to evaporate out of my ears. I stopped squeezing. The place where my nail dug in was bleeding.

I tried to stand up. But I could not stabilize myself. My head began to swarm with words. I could not take it. I considered throwing myself off of the stairs.

II.

I picked my bra off of the bed and brought it to my nose, to smell if it was clean.

It smelled like a rental car.

III.

A broken necklace- it lay on the sidewalk, separated from its neck- its place of resting. Now it rests on the cold cement, where people will walk around it. The string’s ends are frayed. The beads lay there, separated from the company of others. And it will stay there, broken, on the sidewalk. A fragment of someone else’s memory that no one wants to pick up and tie around their neck.