in the stark stricken world that is
ours,
my petulant but tricky younger
self dangles on a string,
banging about in my rib cage like
a one man band summoned on a
Sunday morning.
the smell of baking prickles my
skin like nettle.
dotted leaves sheath the ungodly
horror that is my skin.
rose petals fragrant like rotting
teeth.
wring me out, away with the
shame.
guilt ridden fingernails.
my inner child is peppered with
ginger and nutmeg.
suckling on sugar,
afraid of the looming bitter root.