Summer. A time of strawberries
and cream smears. All that time, grass licking my thighs through my cheap lemon dress.
I am as bitter as that lemon. Skin peeling, peeling, peeling
back, revealing segments of a girl. Bruised with memories and the moments where time stood still. I am bored, bored, bored out of my mind. Weeding, cutting back hedges and picking blackberries. Holding your hand as you shiver with a summer chill. I wipe the sweat from your brow, imagining I'm wiping away the years. Do you remember when we'd chop wood? Splinters in our fingers and rough calloused hands. I remember it well. Why ever did we stop? Building us a home. Is this just a pause? A tea break. We drink tea together, sometimes, over newspapers. I pretend, pouring milk, measuring out sugar. My hands covered in evidence. Dripping with your DNA. You don't know how easy it is to ******. To shoot. To poison. To stab at organs. Your swollen heart ceasing to beat under my fingers. Your liver leaking. Some do it with knifes, kindly. Others with a wrong name shouted in ecstasy. A wet towel on the bathroom floor. Kids screaming in the backseat of cars. I grieve at your funeral. I scatter your ashes on the moorland where we used to ****. My black dress catching in the branches of dead trees. I grieve. I practise looking mystical. Mythical. Solemn. I hold my head differently, now, and I am bored, bored, bored out of mind.