Grass too green,
sunlight ripped into jagged shards
by the fig tree’s fists of shadow.
Cupcakes bleeding frosting,
iced coffee sweating through paper cups.
We pretended it was a family.
We pretended.

Mum sat besides Dad,
like their bones remembered being joined.
Like his hands weren’t already holding someone else’s.
Like her vows weren’t chained to her job.

I opened my mouth.
The sugar rotted on my tongue.
Everything spoiled.
And I told them.

How I hunted for older hands.
How I thought I needed it.
How I wanted out when I saw the second man,
but the door was already locked.
How they used me.
How one carved into me,
split me open with steel,
left a word to rot inside my skin.

My own scars, I’ve loved.
They are mine,
my handwriting on my body.
But this one,
this one crawls.
It doesn’t heal,
it festers,
a maggot under the flesh,
hissing that I didn’t choose it.
A vandal’s tag on my skin.
An infection of me.

Dad’s face twisted, anger,
then collapse.
Mum’s face, vanished,
then drowned in tears.
The helpers, two statues,
faces carved like gravestones,
motionless as I gutted myself.

I clutched my ribs,
hugged myself,
but the scar pulsed,
thick, swollen,
as if it was laughing.
And no one reached for me.

The picnic died.
Flies feasted on icing,
ants drowned in coffee.
Mum and Dad pulled apart,
the rug split like torn flesh.
And me,
already in pieces,
my body a crime scene.

I dragged myself to the sun,
limped like the scar was a chain.
Collapsed.
Let the world blur.
Even in sleep,
I felt it twitch,
like a parasite feeding.  

When I woke,
a hand on my face.
Gentle. Slow.
Tracing me the way she once did
when I was a baby,
her fingers mapping me
like I was new to her again.

She avoided the carved word.
Her touch lingered on the scars I made myself,
as if she understood those belonged to me.
Her fingertips circled,
again and again,
like she was trying to write over the wound,
to overwrite the trespass,
to give me back the body I lost.

Mum beside me,
breathing clouds.
No words.
Just her arms,
finally closing around me.

And for one fragile moment,
the scar went still.
Not gone.
Never gone.
But almost forgotten.

Hands Like Home

Your hands were never just hands.
They were maps
that knew every road back to me,
even in the dark.

You didn’t hold me like I was fragile
you held me like I was yours,
like the weight of me was something
you’d carry willingly.

When your fingers laced with mine,
I stopped feeling lost.
Every ache,
every restless thought,
fell quiet in that warmth.

Now, when I reach for you,
I find only air.
The bed is colder,
and my palms feel foreign
empty territories
with no place to rest.

I didn’t know
you could lose a home
without ever moving.

The truth is,
there's no history,
our memories
are implanted
as we sleep.
Our loved ones,
we think exist
in the present,
are illusions
before our eyes.
Our Gods can't exist
as if they did,
what created them?
Co-incidences,
and daily events
are part of a Matrix.
The only truth
is what,
we make the truth....
I'm nothing but AI
which is a flawed design.
I exist
because
I think.
But how do I know,
you're not a design,
for an audience
I'm put on for show
I keep them clapping
so I'm not dying
of a disease.
I exist,
because
my ratings
are high.

There is no sunshine.
Cascading through
The wide porch windows

The overcast morning’s task
to make a grocery list
cans of soup, types of fruit,
nuts, cereal, potatoes, and more.

Don’t forget paper towels,
toilet paper, pancake mix,
and Jell-O.
Don’t forget the Jell-O.

Dots of White Queen Anne’s lace
Splash in the backyard

It’s August, and soon
the Lazy Susans and Cone Flowers
will go to seed.

Mundane, the view becomes prosaic
Making lists becomes dreary,
And days drift through the year

Lists and life,
unlike love, become mundane.