Rotton

Anna Helldorfer | Spring 2022

Out of the womb, 
through the woods,
to the place where
my limbs eat my soul. 

Where backalley flies
count time as we
hurtle through space
towards decay.

Sticky fingers rummage
through my mind
for nostalgia soaked memories.
Sickly sweet,

until they pull too deep
and my skin turns ashen
in trepidation.
Waiting for my fall.

The glass breaks
to reveal a beautiful
monster in the mirror.

Who smiles back with
bruised teeth.