I scrape charred bread. The sound grates. Crumbs fall in the bin. Lost. I spread raspberry jam on the remains of my burnt toast. I bite. Chew the mistakes around. Smile when the sweet raspberry hits. Slowly swallow. Dry crumbs scratch my throat. I cough. Hurt. Grimace as I keep on eating. The cover up wasn’t worth it.
I cycle home
evening skies glowing
a winter bouquet
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.
Frozen leaves glisten,
ice crackles on the pavement
I walk home alone
Quiet streets, whisper
beneath a soft orange glow
I walk home alone
Blood splattered, a Jackson Pollock on the floor. Glass glistens, like fallen tears. I kneel on the cold canvas, hands busy. Picking, placing, moving. I tidy. A knock on the door.
I sit, surrounded by things. Things you used to own. Photos of things we’d done. I gather them up, into a mountain of memories. Set them alight. Watch us burn. Alone. I watch the fires dance. Bright sparks reaching for the night sky. A tear in my eye. I look to the stars, watch the smoke weave it’s way to them. A chill in the air. I sip my mug of wine. Say goodbye. Watch the fires burn. The heat fade. The ashes sit grey.