cinnamon child

The dim light entangles with
your “honey”s and “dear”s.
I slather them on a cloth,
wrap them around my bruises.

Smooth down the dark. Soothe
the scars done to me. Thaw
the summer without the snake.

Deflated as a balloon, I let
the soap and salt clear me.
I put my memories in a box.
You pull them back out. Calm.

Unhinge the keyhole. Let out
its smoke. Pitch the wound
with velvet. Cauterize. Clean.

The ground wanders glass to pavement.
The pain remains. A howl of a dead dog.
A grandparent cooing children for cake.
I am a cinnamon child. I will not find a way.

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