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A splash of anger boiled, with sprinkles of blame out of date;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.”

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