If Memories Were Berries

Cranberry viscera traces over
the foibles on my eyelids —
upon every eyelash, blushing berries
gut themselves.
I blink away the seeds.

If I laugh, would it be wrong?

This rush of red reaches past
years licked away with a
sugared tongue
that never knew sweetness by its name.

I plunge each aching finger
between my eyelids
                        to wring out every lie
            because I need
I need to see the truth.

Cranberry juice palms down my chin;
every part of this face has murdered.
                                    My eyes lash each skin until the berries
                                                            break,
                                                                        innards clench around my teeth,
                                    my fingers bloom until
they smell like death,
my forehead is wreathed in red.

            This is sweetness never knowing sweetness could be this.

Samari Zysk is a queer Jewish writer who lives in Olympia, Washington. They are currently earning their Bachelor's Degree at The Evergreen State College, where they’re also a Writing Tutor. You can find their work in Cypress Poetry Journal, but you can also find the person themselves picking flowers, writing with an ultra-fine tip pen, or doing other gay things.