All My Fish

I had a great relationship with them before things went sour. I was stuck in my novel, so I joined a writing group. They had thirty events a month and I dove in head first. I didn't realize how much I'd neglected my fish until I went to feed them and saw, shockingly, six were floating belly up. Only a baby fish remained.
It stopped circling and gave me the fish eye. I was filled with guilt. I had created an orphan.
I rushed to my therapist. After all the progress, I was back to square one. Authorities are investigating. I may lose the baby to a more responsible adult.
My novel is still going nowhere.

Bleeding on the Inside

They just let me flop around helplessly. This brutal masquerade of tempting me with goodies, only to stick a hook in my cheek. The humiliation of being yanked away from friends and family. The stench of beer and pizza, the haughty laughter, the sounds of entitlement. The aura of power.
The disdainful tone when they spout my name. Letting me bake in the sun, struggling to breathe, unable to blink because I have no eyelids.
These hard men and their women, playing raucous music, dancing salaciously, stepping on my prone body. Kicking me aside.  I may as well be part of the deck.
My expression does not change, but this carp is damaged in ways that go deep within my psyche. Yes, my identity has been ripped to shreds. I am, indeed, bleeding on the inside.
Damn fishermen.