Butter curls around a warm knife,
succumbing with no resistance,
melting on contact.
The porcelain dish bears slivers of silver
from my misjudgements of strength.
They are drowned in the salty puddle
where metal met churned milk –
and in my darkest moment,
I am the butter,
and I am the knife.
I am the white china
and I am the glistening mistakes.
I am the salt
and I am the tastebuds robbed of their moisture
And I am an oil painting of that same kitchen counter
with the butter crying gently in the corner
in a distant gallery, hanging perfectly still
And I am the girl who catches a glimpse of that captured moment of silent murder
in between raised hands and shrill bangs of the hammer
head tilted not for vision but with exhausted pity
And I am the terrible storm threatening to lift the roof of the building
to rip away its shit art
and at the same time I am the balloon lost to it
a child weeps before yelling in angst at the sky
I am the sun
the violent burning mass of gases
and her sister’s tragic tides
I am every life lost under their watch
and every poor soul who watched those lives fade
who trembled between grief and rage
I am a violent supernova galaxies away
and also the planets it engulfs
and the baited breath begging for the destruction to reach the earth and its stupid butter
I am the sinner
the sinned against
the fool and regret
Betrayer and betrayed
Victor and victim
the dead wasp in the crimson nectar
I am the knife and the fucking low fat bullshit butter –
I am all of everything all at once
and it is glorious
and it is terrifying,
and at the same time I am nothing.
I didn’t even get round to buttering my toast.
My soul is weary. My knuckles are sore.
Header image by Abby