by Jemma Marie

The past is on my chopping board
oozing innocence and guilt.
It smells of grass and jam and ink,
it’s the roots on which I’m built.

I dissect it with a shaking hand,
fearing what I’ll see.
But when I slice its belly open,
something other welcomes me.

A single drop of liquid drips slowly from the knife,
within it lies the story of my entire life.
But seeing it from this view, it isn’t quite the same.
I see the mistakes and missteps, but I do not feel the blame.

I cut and quarter my past, cook it at 200 degrees.
Then I consume it slowly, returning it to me.

‘Supper’, written and read by Jemma Marie
Jemma Marie

Jemma Marie is a Bristol-born writer, happily settled in Cardiff. She likes quintessential writerly things, such as cats and curling up with a good book, and has been published in Shorts Magazine, Ellipsis Zine and Roath Writers Anthology. She has been working on her first novel for the past few years, however the words are yet to make their way to the page…

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