If Davina’s Donuts hadn’t run out of cochineal you might have lived longer. Blood red from crushed insects. Looking at pure white frosting, cold memories of being quashed by you tingled at the back of my brain, ice cream on teeth.
I asked for plain ones, knowing you’d insist on pink.
As I walk down the stairwell now I can see you up there, devouring them, taking in the sin you said runs in my veins, tainting you, passing from my generation to yours. My finger is sore where I cut it and watched the scarlet fall into the icing.
Keren Dibbens-Wyatt is a chronically ill writer and artist with a passion for poetry, mysticism, story and colour. Her writing features regularly on spiritual blogs and in literary journals. She is the author of the book Recital of Love (Paraclete Press 2020). She lives in South East England and is mainly housebound by her illness. kerendibbenswyatt.com.
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