compulsions/convulsions

the aroma of bubbling berries wafts through the kitchen,

and soon lips are stained a deep mulberry wine,

and I smile,

easing smarting hands from oven mitts beneath the table,

knuckles chafed red and raw,

because pastry that burrows under nails

is an unwelcome guest at this table.

I can taste salt in the air,

and see the foam-white crests of waves breaking on the beach:

golden sand strewn with seashells dipped in sunset,

kissed by glittering turquoise waters, as they ebb and flow.

I would gladly drown myself in those endless depths,

just to escape the scrape of sand against my skin.

I had heard that the woods were

peaceful.

a world full of birdsong and babbling brooks,

that blossomed beneath an emerald canopy,

where we could toast marshmallows over a campfire,

till they became clouds with singed edges

that could be torn apart by sticky fingers.

If I doused myself in those merrily crackling flames,

would I finally be free?

of the dirt that clings so closely to me?

The hollows of my eyes have grown bruise-blue.

The skin of my arms is cracked and grey

(and crimson where it splits).

soap turned into an enemy, from the friend I once knew,

its iridescent bubbles are corrosive now too.

if I could I would turn back the clocks:

To a girl who coaxed a ladybug onto her toddler fingers,

and marvelled at its shiny black spots.

To a girl who ran laughing through the sprinklers,

chasing after rainbows under an unforgiving sun.

To a girl who had yet to spend her life,

scrubbing away the remnants of her potential.