Addiction

Cait Yaga
May 4
1 min read

In place of your love

I found comfort in things

They were a warm hug on a sad day

A back rub on a haunted night

I filled my home with them

Pouring my meagre wealth

into manmade safety

When all I wanted

was someone's loving touch

When I realized it was a harm

A risk to house and home

I fought until I learned to live without

But now I have one less warm blanket

And my body is growing cold

Omits

I sing the obituaries I have since I was a child My father tore that spread from the newspaper Like a bite from burnt toast Disgust dripping from buttered fingers I would scoop it up like a treasure Each syllable syrup on my tongue

Hello, Mommy

I pulled my cardigan around me as I walked to the shed, the wind slamming the open door repeatedly against its frame. The sun disappeared behind heavy rain clouds, removing all warmth from the air, the cold clawing at me with skeletal fingers that sent goosebumps exploding across my skin. The shed was pitch black inside. I glanced back at the house, hoping the bath wouldn’t overflow before I returned.

The Art of Letting Go

silence and then listen in the distance wind rushes devours the fields rush turns to roar trees groan leaves prepare branches It’s time, we’ve got to go

It Ends with Hatchets (A Reflection of Dark Romance)

I don't like writing about romance. Nor do I like reading it. Kyra loved romance. All of it. Dark and grimy like charred honey. Our house was a smattering of her collections, side tables and chairs replaced with piles of characters I could never live up to. Oh, but I tried.

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