I have dreams of falling victim 

to the shore of red sea riptides 

that ripple beneath my skin & 

 

boil like cherry glaze on a hot 

plate. And those fruits, spoiled 

to the pit, cannot be saved by 

 

sucrose nor simple syrups. The 

rot will always overpower 

sweetness. Like the skillet, this 

 

body is a shell, handed down and 

seasoned by my mother, and her 

mother before her, and her mother’s 

 

mother before her. But what simmers 

inside cannot be purified, strained, 

or saved. Each sluggish drop infected

 

by nothing in particular.