165: Explosion

The pot is boiling when you walk in

and I am sixteen all over again

and see you laughing, laughing

until there are tears in your eyes and you're gasping for breath

and your lips are as red as your nails and the burning street —

and it shouldn't be beautiful.

It isn't.

All the same, I can't look away.

Something hits me in the face and it smells

of smoke and scorched and something —

something I don't want to see —

my face —

I pull the pot off the stove too late and your laughter rings

in my ears as the shock of your entry sweeps you out again

as though you never existed in the first place. The smouldering walls

plead otherwise.

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Written by: Katrine Hjulstad

Instagram: @katrinehjulstad

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Publisher's note: Please note that all poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been seen by our editors, and that the editors have suggested revisions where they see fit, but we believe that it is ultimately the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions and take no responsibility for which suggestions they accept or reject.