Childhood Patterns

She bakes in the sun
Until layers fall away
Like paper skin flaking from an onion.
At night
She scratches with sharp nails
And peels it away in strips
She remembers former
clouds of dusty white cells.

Memory takes
Her to another place.
The smell of lavender soap
Where laughter is real
Carefree, and floats lightly
Not viciously loaded
With resentment
And bare teethed hatred.

He claims nostalgia is for losers
Presenting her with a now of
Snarling smiles in fighting pits,
Rages and domestic spats.
They tear strips
Off each other like layers of
Wallpaper, revealing raw
Bloody wounds
Of childhood floral patterns.