Whipped cream

Elastic figures twisting like childhood strawberry candies and PTSD flashbacks. Burning like cheap firecrackers giving out more lung-choking smoke than light. Though, all that twists isn’t misleading, all that burns isn’t dead.

It’s simple.

The aftertaste,

             the ashes,

                      the residue,

                               the disgust.

They are bedsheet buddies with secrets and celebrations. I’m a howl with a tinge of tear salt, heard from behind the curtains. Their curtains.

I’m a trauma that’s too stubborn to heal. I’m the feeling after separation. I’m the greasy aftertaste of the buttery whipped cream, or maybe a foul smell.

A leftover, a memory, a disgust.