She had recently been reminded, that time will continue to go on regardless of what she chooses to do with it and so, she grabbed time by the hands and ticked boxes rather than standing still and being struck.
She blamed it on the moon cycle: Its feverish beam uniting melancholy with high voltage twitching, a confusing combination.
She wanted to howl at the moon: a loud organic moan from the deep pit of her despair, bare chested atop a mountain peak but all while hiding under a heavy blanket eating comfort food.
Staring severely into the sky, beyond the stars and past her better judgment, she blamed it on the moon cycle.
After trying on many different shapes and colors, she still looked a little round and felt a little blue.
She didn’t need a clock to know the time. She could tell by the piles of folded washing, the amount of toys covering the floor and her toddlers resistance to everything, that it was undoubtedly wine time.
She bustles effortlessly throughout the kitchen loading her pre-prepared toddler meal in the microwave while her newborn lies across her chest; swaddled in her left arm, asleep, nipple splayed openly under the baby’s chin while two glasses of wine swaddle themselves under the mothers belt.
It was all one motion, one scene.
Perhaps it was all one act.
They swaddled her in the pastels of dusk, eyes falling with the rising of the moon. Her slumber so sweet; Sugar crystals formed on her eyelashes. Sealed with a kiss, on peach coloured lips, she was all but wrapped in a bow.