140 words (or less) on this photo and using the word Treasure.
She thinks: A treasure he says? And the thoughts flow: dependency, a crutch. An oral fixation, destructive eating habits based upon emotion and stress rather than actual hunger. Skinny jeans becoming too snug, overly tight, unbearably too small. Moving to a larger size. Defeat! Grandma arms; maybe even jowels. Perhaps smoking (yellowed teeth, expensive dental work, stained fingers, lung cancer). Always having to be eating; something, something. Dating the wrong men, leaning upon them, never standing alone. Marrying the wrong man. Again and again and again. And tracing it all (all of it! Every solitary bit!) to this moment.
This oh so tiny minuscule microcosm of time as I sit trapped whilst he attempts to get me to Shut Up.
Hah! A Shut Upper never shall I be.
Take your binky, you Man you.
And suck it yourself.