I once knew where I was going.

Had the keys,

had the map,

had the whole damn tricky tap

tap of the tin box

holding my twin locks.

Just like that — let’s go.

But now.


I’m rooted to the spot.

Sticky trickly toffee pudding

caramelizes my toes.

It burns,

it scorches,

it blackens me.

Look, my ankles ooze a night-dark jelly jam and

it chokes the blood from my legs

like a cancer hug sickly sweet.




And it says,

oh, how it whispers in that carcinogenic sugar-love hum-thrum-hum,

“Did you forget something?”


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