Detail, missed
I pick at the bud, knowing I’ll kill. Peel, peel, peel what’s not ready.
Tight, upright, waiting for suns that will not come, you sit. Stubborn.
I nip at your core, splice your heart, in order to understand the anatomy of grief.
You don’t budge. Through sediment, settlements of souls, I investigate, operate.
Cut by cut, I slice, dissect, open sesame, rip skin full of scabs.
You allow me in. I peel, peel, peel. Bring autumn justice. Strip layer upon layer.
I shred you into strings, theories of everythings. You smile, find breath. Your secret safe from me.
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Britta Benson
Britta Benson is a German writer, circus performer and linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000. She publishes her latest musings and stories on ‘Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland’ every day and has featured in online and print publications. She also teaches Gaelic, runs a creative writing group, The Procrastinators, loves to walk up and down the Scottish countryside and drinks far too much tea.