My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie Snowflakes are my favorite flavor. And chocolate is my favorite type of music. I smell the crackling of embers in the fireplace, and if I'm able to shake the numbness from my fingers, I can feel the texture of an excess carol on my skin. Christmas may be over, but at least four of my five senses are there in some shape or form. If only my vision returned to me like the doctor said it would, because for now, I am sitting in a bauble of darkness, and I'm not sure if I'm supposed to say words or see them. This week's prompt was provided by Arden Roddie.

I don't know why we're talking about this again. The words wind up meaning nothing if they're repeated over and over without actual weight. We're going around in circles, and we're kicking up dirt and rain as we do so. The storm is thundering overhead, and I just want to go home. But you won't quit. Not until you've said your piece a thousand times, as if it'll change my mind. I'll collect my things in the morning. You'll have to argue with the empty bedroom instead,