Red Cherries

The last page in the red cherry book has been filled.
Fifty-six pages of the same words.
A whole nest of writing creeping off the edges
Not quite sure of its own cursive.
It should be different.
The way you start. Compared to the way you finish.
I should no longer be brandishing my little book and dangling my arms over the stairwell. But nothing has changed.
Words do not change circumstance
However hard you try to write yourself out.
The voice laughs
I forbid you to stop.
And so you don’t.
But you know you ended years ago.
Before the red cherry book.
Before the hundred other books hidden under the bed.
Butterflies and flowers.
Powder in pages.
Dust mixed with blood.
That’s all that is left.
A single dose of fire sent skittling down the evidence and you are gone.

Poof.
Well Done You.

The policeman stands behind me in the queue paying for a sandwich.
He keeps his hat on.
I pack my shopping.
A lady that manages.
Such a shame. You know. But she gets by.
A small step into the red cherries and my world would collapse. I would collapse.

How delicious that seems.
To fill the words.
To find my hand.
To finally be ok.