Pesticide

Pieces of orchids are strung across the floor, rumpled like band aids, left behind by the girls. You know you have to pack now, the rats will be here soon, caught up in the chase. They will burn down this house, just like the last. Flames squeal with joy at the prospect of being allowed out to play. They will smoke you out of your ‘writer’s world’ and the next to come.

You leave the orange case open on the floor, you gather up all their little clichés and repeating, repeating metaphors. You cram them viciously into a jar too small. They cut themselves, again and again, just to fit. You want to take them. You want to leave all these people behind with none of their nagging security. You will leave them empty, as you fill your case.