Vetinarilover

i. A circle of women sit, crossing their legs, weaving their wrists, their ankles in and out of identifiable strangers, all staring at the centre, assuming some preconceived dawn, some feminized rebellion. None of them speak; they shift weight, heavy set, saturated gazes onto one another, connected by invisible sorrows, mounted through a unified mutiny. ii. Sometimes desperation coagulates into a mass of furred emotion, sprouting slime glands, antennae, and a sixth sense of congenital failure. There are mistakes that grip you by the knees, drag you down, open you up and leave you with nothing but your own warped self-lo