Omits

Cait Yaga
Aug 27
1 min read

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

My dad thought it was a waste of paper

Why write about the dead

When they were already gone

But I knew the truth

He preferred numbered corpses

While the obituaries gave them names

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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