A silver ripple escaped from the stream and crawled along the mossy bank. It snapped through brambles exploding berries like broken hearts. Inside a fox chased by dogs tangled amongst the thorns in surrender. The wave flowed by without grief.
It pushed my sin along the middle of bubbling tarmac, dropping like tears in the cat’s eyes between the broken white lines. My verdict diluted into reservoirs and rattled pipes under homes. The wet rust smelling like an open vein.
I watched her blood continue thinning, skin flaking and organs decaying. Soon children will drink my crime. She’ll swirl in babies bottles. Every pair of lips will taste my confession.
She’s my wet infection.
Original version published at Lily Childs Feradom.