I crept out into the morning light still blue from the leftover dark. The first birds were beginning to stir It must be nice to have no worries. The trees rustled – talking but not telling their secrets Like teenage girls. If I could crawl back into mother’s womb I would. The path is cold on my feet they’re small, they still have time to grow. Unlike my sadness that is an adult even though my shoulders are small. The rustle of claws upon hay I disturbed the pets from their soft, sweet, sleep. I feel like I’ve let them down but it’s hard being my parent as well as theirs. Dad’s toolbox On the shelf up high. Clambering awkwardly onto The chest freezer so that I can reach my gold. She’s a good girl They only say that because I’m quiet. They don’t understand the layers, distortions and rituals inside. I take what I’m looking for Amongst rusty nails the sandpaper – it smells of rotten water but still has enough roughness to work. Paper upon skin skin upon paper the smell of burning peaches the smell of low self esteem I feel the scar for thickness blood on the end of my little fingers Placing the sandpaper back I leave the operating room and enter the house, and get into bed before anyone wakes.
by Emma Dawson
Emma Dawson has written for pleasure and processing emotions for as long as she can remember – she used to invent characters and stories from about the age of five. It’s only recently she’s thought about submitting her work. She is currently unpublished.
photo credit: FWStudio