A poem by EMMA NIHILL.
Your face seemed benign enough, if one ignored the white spittle gathering at the corners of your mouth.
I didn’t notice it in the dark.
I tasted something like stale sugar glued to dry lips and it made me retch.
Have you ever thought about a raw egg mashed into the side of a blushing face?
Death in germination.
I remember you were scared of something aborted, half-made.
Dried to white, cooked to white.
Isn’t it forlorn, an unmade bed stained with absent desire.
You were mean; in stature, in voice.
I don’t remember your name.
Just something sticky.