Tonight, the storm was flying off the handle, her body hardening in my hands a bit of rigor would do you… Saying. “Mama, may I?” With the hip flask of her naked anatomy containing the formaldehyde of her evermore. Listening to the rhythm of the rain on the tin roof—not syncopated, just wet. You’d think this was Kentucky. You’d think wrong. The hip flask wasn’t silver, but the kind of cheap metal that leaves a taste of old zippers in the chest, burning envy like licking the battery on my Lenovo. Turning this old poet out of bed, the storm said: “Never mind.” So we minded, all the same, with Dick and Jane. Tonight, the storm was flying off the handle…
Rated for Teens(13+) 
…off the handle
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Whew, chilling. The mind reacting to itself. Creative way to explore the tension between control and chaos, intimacy and decay. I’ve never been much of an introspective writer; at least I’ve never sat down and said I’m going to write in that way. And while your piece is indirectly introspective, given the abstract images, it does make me think. its the way you show a mind caught in strange, looping thoughts while trying to make meaning of overwhelming feelings. Anyway i’m rambling, this was short and sweet.
Thank you, Kay. I don’t see the sense in writing if one is afraid of words. I wrote only because I enjoy it.