cedarwood and spiced plum

by Jill Tracy

today i missed the way your laundry smells
and when i dug up your high school sweatshirt
thorns sprung from the inside and ridiculed me

little arrows aimed at freckles on my skin
yet i wanted to recreate what it felt to be held
so desperately that i let my blood soak into the polyester

i listened to the bristles digging into the worst parts of me
following a guided tour of every word spoken too hastily
and pointed the finger of blame at the self i am supposed to love