WRITING

mitosis

mitosis

The women beside me in the back of the pickup didn’t deserve to be there. 
At least that’s what I told myself beneath the tarp.
It was dark, and every time the driver hit a bump my hands slammed to the floor.
It was gooey, and the scent reminded me of the time Mom missed my cheek and knocked out a tooth.
Those women were rancid, rotten, and revolting. Just like the driver.

Back then it was easy to pretend I alone was a revolution, and that the matter between us would never change. But nothing can stay the same when the purpose of re-form is Love.


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