Blame

It simmers. This constant invisible, hovering like a wasp in the forever periphery threatening lightning strike yellows, sudden and unbidden. It spills and spools, down into black stripes melting and melding to pools of what could be oil, what could be memory. What could be regret now slick with – what? A splash of anger boiled, with sprinkles of blame out of date; mixed with grief curdling, poured into a well of questions overcooked yet left raw, still somehow roasted and burnt-snap-toast / ed too tough for even a crouton of relief. It’s a recipe I can never master. Ingredients lacking, my baking tray left to crust. ‘The Chronic Pain’ special. 'The Looping Blame Game’ starter. “Welcome to Self-Sabotage Restaurant and its rotating menu of dishes which you serve yourself.”