I drop a pencil, hear it crack. Pick it up. Listen to the core. Graphite snapped. Invisible. Inside. I press on it, write a sentence. Sketch a drawing, shade the grey. Use it. Broken. I know it’s done. Inside it’s shattered. A rattle, a clatter. Pieces fallen. Outside it’s fine.
Week old, in the bowl,
skin still smooth, colour still bright.
Left behind. Fading.
Don’t peel her, don’t touch her skin.
Flesh inside wrinkled. Coarse
and dry, now. Deflated, don’t bite. Bitter
she bleeds. Poison waits,
I long to paint the morning sky, cushion clouds in clusters of pink and blue. I think of what I’d use, the shapes I could make, the tones I could create. Just to keep this close to me. To feel this again.
Ice clinks. I drink one last time. Shivers run through me. Cold, a tear falls. All over. It’s done.
Empty room. Silent tears. The plant bows it’s head. Sorrowful.