A Bottle in the Vienne

At my grandmother’s house
leaves lie scattered on the table.
I write on the floor.
She watches me
fold the paper very tight
without saying a word.
“Fragments”, an open workshop: short texts that do not always follow one another. Stolen scenes and fleeting moments.

At my grandmother’s house
leaves lie scattered on the table.
I write on the floor.
She watches me
fold the paper very tight
without saying a word.

My head is overflowing.
Really.
My head is a construction site.
It never stops.

— What the hell are you doing here? I said, trying not to lose my temper.
— Your mom said we could crash wherever.
— So you picked my room?
— Yeah, I like the vibe of a girl's room. It's super cute. And your scent's in the sheets.

Glitter theme this year. I pulled out the black dress I’ve only worn once — the one waiting for me at the back of the wardrobe, patient, provocative. The one you gave me.

I’m the girl you discover when the Amazon delivery guy got the street wrong dropping off a package, and you can’t believe I live right next door to you.