I pick at the bud,
knowing I’ll kill.
Peel, peel, peel
what’s not ready.
Tight, upright,
waiting for suns
that will not come,
you sit. Stubborn.
I nip at your core,
splice your heart,
in order to understand
the anatomy of grief.
You don’t budge.
Through sediment,
settlements of souls,
I investigate, operate.
Cut by cut,
I slice, dissect,
open sesame, rip
skin full of scabs.
You allow me in.
I peel, peel, peel.
Bring autumn justice.
Strip layer upon layer.
I shred you into strings,
theories of everythings.
You smile, find breath.
Your secret safe from me.
Britta Benson is a German writer, circus performer and linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000. She publishes her latest musings and stories on ‘Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland’ every day and has featured in online and print publications. She also teaches Gaelic, runs a creative writing group, The Procrastinators, loves to walk up and down the Scottish countryside and drinks far too much tea.
