My favorite shirt: navy blue with a hot pink
many-armed Shiva on the front, the fabric softened
by countless washings. I wear that shirt and nothing else
as I find the guts to say, “You take me for granted.”
Mama didn’t raise me to be a doormat. The words,
unspoken—a blend of her voice and mine. Your tone
is a sharp retort, a ball-peen hammer tapping my skull.
I spot a hole in my shirt, just above the hem, worry it
with my finger. By the time you turn your back on me
mid-sentence, the hole is large enough to circle my wrist.
M. Stone is a bookworm, birdwatcher and stargazer, who writes poetry and fiction while living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She can be reached at https://writermstone.wordpress.com.