Mommy's scent is best, only scent I like of everyone, warm, sweet, flesh, alive and home. The rest of my day is feedings, visit from clacking clicking gold teethed old hags with wrinkles and bad breath, shrouding the orange room with gray, strangling me with their hot. I hear their chatter and it hurts my ears, so I cry. All day bitter milk from grandma's flat tits, cold, throw up, and batter buttermilked left outside smells of everyone else but mommy. They come and go.
Night comes in candles, returning the orange.
And grandma with that picture book. I want and I don't. I try sleep. I won't let me. Each day running into the other.