Claire Doherty

I should take my last breath. Lie very still. Let the dust settle above. Dig my fingertips in the earth.

And then, without moving a muscle, scream.

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On those nights when the house shivered from their fury, she would reach for the small, cold clump in her nightstand. There it was: the rise of shoulders to a hairless pinhead. No mouth, only two eyeholes pressed into the clay. Too small for grown fingers now. Still watching, not speaking. #WriteCBC