Artwork by Jacinta Blaxland

What does it taste like?
Rust and a little blood on the lip.
I don’t have to, but I lick.
Every time I care a little less,
the bar is brought down further,
until it’s not quite safe to smile.

I do not wish to be inviting,
lest I become the prey one more time
and follow the predator,
in my battered down innocence.
The predators smell good,
they go to the prayer house, love children
and care from a distance,
they regard with soft hands and eyes edgy,
that is, until they are bored again.

And then it’s half time.
Pregnant pauses. Abrupt absences.
I seizure with bewilderment.
Anxiety swells like a wrathful wave,
lacerates again and again.
Calloused and raw,
I prefer sterilization instead.

Because heart throb and pain throb
are not really different,
one collapses into the other often
without any premonition.
The scorching fever of indifference
must return unreceived.
Love doesn’t have to be pretty and seasonal,
hearts are not cherry blossoms.

—

Poem by Anushree Bos

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