9.2.09
Oh, thunder in my heart.
The blanket is a hot blanket. She doesn't have a heart. She wears a backpack that will deliver meds to her on her program. The yellow liquid through the tube she can always see on the inside of her left breast is thick like a banana flavored penicillin. It isn’t penicillin though. But, the blanket is a blanket. A real cotton one. A peach on the inside salmon outside world to Anna who lives under it. She is twenty years old and has been under the blanket for ten of those old years. The constant friction gives her a smooth spot on the top of her head. Sometimes, the cotton burns against this, and it is red – or what she thinks must be because she can't see the top under the blanket, in the dark, without a mirror.