• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 11
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Small creatures chitter and fret within my jar.
It’s their own fault.
All I did was put the jam in there.
No one asked them to go in after it.
I only closed the lid; not my fault.
The sky pinwheels behind me,
blotchy as a watercolour.
Not my fault.
Is the sky really doing somersaults
or are fractals growing in my eyeballs?
Either way, it’s not my fault.
They told me, 'Keep up the medication.'
Forgot to hide the knives.
Blame them!
The hornet looks like my husband.
He has a pinched face.
No blood on him though.
I wonder if it knows where the knife is.
Not my fault.
My husband looks like the hornet.
Small. Buzzing. Incoherent.
He’s almost transparent.
Everything dies.
Not my fault.