Lychalis

I watched a fly caught in layers of webbing behind the blinds, heard the fruitless buzzing, muddy and frantic, as it struggled and pulled to free itself, ripping off a leg with its efforts. The short, stunted whirrs of effort sounded almost despairing, like a fly could lose hope amidst its chaotic pathways. All through it, the tiny spider darted around, trying to wrap up the feast, trying to bite. The fly ripped itself free of the lacy trap, and crashed down to the windowsill, where it struggled, legs still trapped, and expired – so both were left without.

I stepped into the forest down the road on my lunch hour, traded a haze of petrichor for the closed-in quiet of the trees. Ambling down earthen, paw-trodden paths, listening to the magpie's cackle, saluting as he passed. Somewhere in the shroud of leaves, the soft, rhythmic cooing of a bird I used to imagine an owl. Where the only sign of humanity was the lamp posts lining the main path and the far-off roar of the A road.

All of my poetry feels insincere and fake, hollow, un-living. Like I'm writing from inside a bubble or scratching through the veil. Like I haven't lived, not really, haven't felt the kind of pain I want to write about, like I must first draw blood to speak. I think of a woman with a name like starlings, whose songs aren't always from her tapestry of life, but treading the threads of someone else. It still feels so raw and alive like she'd lived it herself. Maybe I just don't understand people enough. Maybe I just don't know what to talk about.

Here is a scent that lingers in the throat like retina-burn, the saccharine scent of roses in a petrified forest of stone. Petals, gold and blushing, caught in the folds of my pleated magpie-coloured skirt, dusted with charcoal from the hearth. Sweet wrappers coloured the flaming hearth and left a coating of plastic vapour in my throat like an aching film. My pleated magpie skirt was stained with the scent of roses, a rosewater pool seeping into the folds of the kitchen floor, the bottle smashed upon stone. Shards of glass decorated stone, lit by flame-light, a jewel encrusted hearth. I steered clear, lest the glass slice the folds of my bare toes and grow in my throat the ache of tears. A taste of roses sank into my skin, soaking through my pleated skirt. I fell to my knees, blushing, my pleated skirt gathering charcoal scattered across stone, a dust cloth from waist to knees. The pool of roses faded, evaporated by the warmth of the hearth, soaked into my towel. Rosewater infected