Victoria D. Poet Narrative

Reflections of a Sour Drop - SK

A white tear bled from the foil seam,
a cold, lactic rot sliding down her woven leather heel,
drawing a pale, sour map across her instep.
I watched the porcelain skin of her shoe drink the milk,
and in that quiet curdling, my entire small frame snapped.

A choir of jagged iron shrieked beneath my skull,
tearing through the bone and behind my eyes:
a ruined child deserves no sun.

I did not wait for any reflex. 
I dragged myself by the throat, 
spat curses into my own ears, 
and ran.

I bolted past the garden gate, 
past the tall, unbothered grass,
my bare feet slapping the dirt in a rhythm of
self - contempt and fault.

In the damp dark behind the compost heap,
I pressed my face into the stinging nettles,
scraping my knees against the jagged limestone,
offering my own raw, bleeding shins to the air
to pay the debt for what I had done

praying the earth would swallow the wretched thing I was.

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