clairesbears
You spent days fixing up that banjo, days when I wasn't allowed to see you. But those were the ones you were happiest. Strumming away playing bluegrassy folk music in your basement. Whiskey and pipe tobacco, but you've never been to the South.
With roots deep. Some days I hate working at the Credit Union, but that's grassroots. I grew up too country for all of this. Maybe that's why I crave the city. There's a beat instead of strumming, and banjos just make me sad.
Press down. Wake up again with your teeth mashed into the sides of your cheeks. You cannot breathe. It's better than last night, gagged mouth and clamps. You bite for freedom. Your jaw clenches, unclenches and you move because you can.