Small Truths

A museum hall in Paris, midnight. Tall windows pour cold light across marble. An unfinished canvas looms. The Painter, gaunt, restless, sits, then paces. The Cleaning Lady, stooped but wiry, sweeps the long hall. Painter: Each canvas is a mouth I cannot feed, A hollow hunger, an unblinking need. Cleaning

Life is too short to find the matching sock. Too short to wait in the queue. Too short to scroll every feed, to watch every movie, to go to every game. Life is too short to miss her when she’s gone. Too short to work for a fancy car,

You were my first love. You came to me in a swirl of pink frosting and warm light, in the soft hush of grandma’s kitchen where cookies cooled on a wire rack. You cradled me in your sugared arms and whispered promises: “One bite, and all the hurt will

It was Sunday dinner at the House of Human Folly, and the siblings were already at war. “Let’s get this straight,” said Pain, sawing at his steak like it owed him money. “I am the cornerstone of human culture. Without me, there’s no art, no wisdom, no growth.

Keys? Check. Wallet? Check. Oh no. I forgot my phone. My chest tightens like a fist. Heat rushes to my face. My hands are shaking. Pockets—left, right, jacket, bag— empty. Again. Again. No. No no no no. My heart is pounding too hard, like it’s trying to break