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.