Chicken Little

by Natalie Robin

I spend most of my time in my room. The recent construction out on the street is shaking the framework of my solitude. I think of inevitable earthquakes and know if I am in this room it will fall on top of me. I’ve never had anything fall on top of me except my heart that one time. I learned then that if you forfeit yourself for love, you’re doing it wrong. I did it wrong, yet I can’t be mad at myself now that I’m here. It’s no more my fault than the color of my own eyes. Earthquakes and Love are nobody’s fault. They are also the same.