Selfish

Insomnia's killing me. It's ten past five in the morning, and I need to be awake at thirty past eight.

Writing has been a chore these past few days as my ideas for the current stories do not want to churn, rather, they want to become new stories themselves.

Selfish, these children are.

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It wasn't warmth that kept us united. It rained every day we were there, but we wouldn't let either of us out of our sights. The animals were a delight, petting them, holding them, imagining what their insides would look like, wrapped around the Christmas tree.

How would your look like wrapped around the Christmas tree?

Beautiful, I think, and your bones in the fire place. All we need is snow for me to drape your shedded flesh over a miniature snowman.