It isn’t that it’s tender to the touch or stings under the spray of the shower so much. It’s not the stitches or the cut. It’s not the bandage wrapped too tight or even you with the knife. It’s something like the window across the street from us where the biddy sits alone. How I used to pity her from our comfort, our home. So who’s outside my window looking in to see? Re-wrapping my bandages, brewing bitter tea. It’s not a voyeur or a friend, not a salesman on the hunt. There’s only one spectator left in the gallery. It’s me. It’s me. It’s me.
Matt Thompson is a writer who lives in Atlanta, GA with his elderly beagle. His short fiction can be found in Aforementioned Productions, R.kv.r.y. Quarterly, and elsewhere. His poetry can be found right here.