Tinted sunlight creams through the front door.
You smell like boiled milk and my fingers can’t seem
to stop finding glitter in my hair – blue, green, pink
the more I search, the more I want to discover. I want
to peel off my skin and hose it down on the grass each
morning, I want to throw red paint at the sky. I want to
carve out my fingernails and feed them to the birds
but there’s a glue between me and the shadows I came from
the ginger-flavoured crypt I go to sleep in every night.
There is some brilliant detail in you that I can’t solve
I don’t think I can now, carnivorous me, I’m sorry I ate you
when I had the chance. Funny, you tasted like chai musk
and it makes me cry every time. I want to walk up
a hill that never ends, wash my feet with mud from
the end of a river. The walls in the house feel summer’s
at an end, paint drying in bumps underneath my palms.
Each tile is cracked, each mirror glistens in response.
There’s a rot in the garden, a symphony of fruit
half-buried in the soil. The roof falls down every time
I leave. I used to think it was easy. I used to think
milk never curdled if you left it out overnight.
Ankita Bellary is a writer and dessert-enthusiast from Brisbane, where she is currently studying law and writing. She enjoys exploring suburban life, her cultural heritage, family, and the natural environment in her work. Her poetry has been published in Pencilled In, The Tundish Review and Djed Press, and she is currently writing a screenplay for a comedy film.