spices and herbs

spices and herbs

Ching, ching, ching, ching. The cash register jingles cheerfully as the cashier stumbles over himself to shut it. I’m jostled back into my own head by it, by him. He is this very bored, very young teenager handing me my change, the warm metal reflecting the bindings on my train of thought, reins made of chain lashing violently as it’s steered back into the bleak station of reality, coming to a thundering, shuddering stop. I smile. Thank him. He smiles back, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. It hurts to look at him. My gaze drops to my groceries in an attempt to run away from his glassy stare. It turns to my change instead. Small coins that lack glimmer and shine after years of use, traded from one hand to the next, dull and faded. Their greed can still be seen through the smog of use, tangible, tastable. Borderline edible. Cayenne around the edges. Delectable.

green or not green
crumpled, ripped, shiny, pristine
foggy, rusted, mouldy
it chases me and i chase it
hours upon hours of hard work
burns and tears and sweat and blood
all to put food on my table
a roof over my head
basic human necessities
somehow i should be grateful?
they want me to be grateful?

I shove the change in my pocket and grab my bread and oat milk. I have beans and rice at home. Rice my brother bought me, a 5kg bag I have made stretch for over close to a year now. Some mushrooms, slowly going soggy in the bottom of the plastic container they come to me in. No other fresh veg, only frozen. The freezer is lonely. A bag of peas, corn and pepper. Some broccoli. A year old pie crust. Two ice packs. A single ice cream, maybe, I’m not sure. Some raw chicken, weighed into bags for my cat who refuses to eat anything else. A deep sigh makes a mad dash, a prison break, and escapes my lungs before they can arrest it again; suddenly my exhaustion is visible to everyone in this shop, a neon sign above my head that screams “POOR” in blues and purples and reds and yellows, each so bright it’s assaulting to look at. I tug my jacket, the old leather one with the torn up pockets closer around me and stalk away, turning on my heel in the most dignified way I can. I know they saw it. I know they know. They know I know they know. I bite back tears on the walk home, the bitter winter wind ripping through my jeans, my old jeans from when I was 15 that I can fit back into now because of how little I eat, the ones with the fibers barely hanging on anymore. No wonder I'm cold, I think and chuckle, a bitter, cruel sound, my breath visible against the night sky. It’s tinged with cinnamon, a little too much. It burns my throat. I watch it dissipate and pray I could go with it too. Take me away from this, I want to scream at the sky. He says nothing, winking at me. I carry on home.

why me?
my house is frighteningly cold in winters
scorching hot in summers
the hours i work never seem to be enough
the greedy higher ups bathe themselves in green
be it envy or dollar bills, one in the same
they step on my throat and crush my fingers as i try to serve them
forcing me to kneel only to break my knees when i go to crumble
kicking the horse that is my labour until it stops spitting out money
and instead spits out blood
then they will set me free

I have to work again tomorrow. I get to work again tomorrow. I don’t know which to think. My shift calendar sits on my kitchen counter, taunting me. I didn’t have the spare change to buy nails and a hammer to put it up. Here you go again, putting your silly little costume on, dancing for their money. Everything you do, you do for money. Have some fucking self respect. My ears ring. I hear my blood pumping through my head, my poor heart working overtime with no pay. Rage floods my very soul. Why do I have to suffer for others to prosper? I’m working to pay my bills, yet the money I make skips my pocket and goes right back into theirs. Them, the ones with three houses and walls made of glass, yachts bigger than my run down apartment with the broken heating and the mould in the bathroom that I simply ignore, those with too much money to know what to do with it. They could burn it for fun (and they probably do) whilst I thank my lucky stars when my debit card doesn’t decline as I buy the instant noodles without the flavour packet and RedBull®. At least I have the option to pay for the cans of sugar free. Less calories. I can’t afford a gym card. The kettle starts to scream on the stove. I don’t have an electric kettle. My electricity bill is high enough as it is. A chai would be nice, but I don’t have tea bags either, so my usual evening cup of hot water will do.

you disgust me
i rumble
a poison that curls my lip and bares my teeth
a primal instinct i cannot control
you bring that out in me
i growl and snarl
the wolf in my blood sings for revenge
spit flying in a thousand directions and watch you beg, plead
offer me anything, everything, just please don’t hurt me!
take what you want, just leave me alone!
my cheeks hurt as i laugh at your pathetic form
there is no mercy for the wicked
there is no salvation for slavers

My bedsheets are freezing. I wear the tattered rainbow patterned woolen socks that my mothers ex-girlfriend made me when I came out as bisexual to bed despite not being able to sleep in socks. I’d rather have sweaty feet than frostbite. The duvet is littered with holes, the duvet cover is stained. I like to think that it’s a rustic interior design choice. It makes it easier to live like this. My cat curls up next to me. I feel her shiver and pull her under the covers with me. We leech body heat off of each other, a symbiotic, almost parasitic relationship. My pillow starts to dampen as my tears flow silently. I’m not sad. I'm furious. Well, I’m also sad, but mostly angry. We don’t deserve this. Do they know I’m lying here, struggling day after day to survive? Or are they more focused on what year their bottle of Italian red is? Is it a -93 or a -94? Marissa, you know I don’t like the -94! Grow up! If it’s a fucking Barolo it’s only good for five or six years anyways you stupid fucking cunt. I take a shaky breath. There’s no use in spending my energy getting worked up over these people. I had asked myself if they know I’m lying here, barely coping, and the answer is yes. They do. They simply do not care. Iron dapples my tongue as my teeth pierce my cheek. I hiss involuntarily, waking up the cat. She leaves the bed. I close my eyes slowly, savouring the blood that fills my mouth. Self-consummation for dinner. Recycling. A giggle falls from my lips. It’s stained red. Sleep grips my wrist, a warm hug filled with promises of a better land, a better time, a better life. Better things. I lean into her touch, my last thought being of the cat before she takes me away yet again. I’ll resent her in the morning when she brings me back. Right now, I chase her like an addict chasing a hit, over and over and over again. There is no green here in this world. No herbs on my rice and beans. Only crimson, bloody, tainted kisses. Cinnamon spice in my morning coffee.

cardamom in the essence of those who betray me
thyme and rosemary on the meat of the damned
salt and pepper on the tongues of those who wrong me
cinnamon spice in the blood of sinners

repent

a change of pace

a change of pace

lights

lights