By Sophie Mateja
i am the boiling hate atop a
lemon tree,
i am the aftertaste
of far-gone leftovers,
lasagna sealed into eternal
death
at the back of the fridge.
and i cry. i cry because
i have no grip
and the yarn between my fingers
slips,
rugburns and faded blue-green pigment
smeared across my too-fat cheeks. i
look to the lemons but they
cannot smile back,
for i am not worthy
of dimples.
no one will wither
with me.
hold me, softly-
then
take the boughs i graced,
brace my back
and break it.
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