I wasn’t careful.
The medley of fruits (blackberry / raspberry / strawberry / blueberry),
entwined with sugar
attacked me
as it was liquefying
in the small pot beneath my hands.
It scalded me,
left a white dot
the size of a snowflake
on the soft flesh of my pinky finger,
a bone-deep burn that lasted all night.
And now, the punchline:
The boiled jam didn’t even make it to the fridge,
Only to the tile floor.
The plastic container
sodden with heat, splintered
under my hands
puddles of dark purple
oozed over the grout,
Seeds sprayed across the white cabinets
like the goriest crime scene
never caught on screens.
The only victim:
My pride.