The Female Caveman
The Partner in a Shared, Stagnant Cage
Grunting through the grindstone
We paint our faces daily with pigment we’re not paid to mix. My partner in this cave—his silence is a language I’ve learned by heart. Some days I pocket contraband (candy bars, bus tickets) but always return them, afraid the void outside this role is wider than the one inside. Management says 'immersion' is everything. I say survival is a quieter spectacle.
What I'm Into: cracked mirror fragments, the goat we share, contraband candy wrappers, the cave’s unlit exit
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