Letter necklace and whispers in vials
My lungs are soaked with the ghosts of a thousand cigarettes.
I pretend I’m puffing secrets and untold mysteries to my onlookers but all it is, is regret and dried leaves. Not the good kind.
Like the tablas during the waning moon, my heart beats.
Seated cross legged atop the dusty mat, porridge for dinner,
My shawl hides my breasts because...well just because.
I can’t remember a time when god wasn’t mentioned in this house.
A name that is spat out occasionally like an unwanted morsel of food.
My skin is riddled with stories, gooseflesh and the whispers of human warmth
Of a mouth or a hand that glides gently atop the crevices of my body
A ribbon of tar, puddles in cracks and aching feet.
I muster all I can to have my fingers spit these words onto the screen
Like the solitary witch and the vitriolic hex she spent her life on,
Churning and churning, until I see bubbles that pop and fizz.
But in the end all the witch is left with is a hex and a blanket for company.
Sarah J writes for a living and writes to keep her sanity alive. She likes tea.