written at writing club, inspired by this image drawn by me and three others. her name is bobby, she fears death, and she smells of bacon.
swirly head whirls around on long neck checking out the challenges of the day. a cup stays on the table from maybe weeks ago, and so much more mess piles pitifully on the ground. found treasures to some, but not bobby. she sees shirts and half-finished artwork and disconcerting stains on the floorboards. bobby barely, but fairly well, smells bacon and wonders when she even... no matter. the splatters of paint and faint piles with precarious meaning evade all cleaning. she lays down and stares at the ceiling.