My cheeks are tingling, burning raw,
As the harsh scent of tea tree, fresher than mint, fills my nose,
My throat, my chest, my lungs, with every breath I take
Stripping me bare, cleansing me,
Like my insides are being rubbed clean.
The tangy taste of pomegranate is so real on my tongue
That I can see my fingers, sticky, dried and dyed red.
I breathe in,
I exhale,
Repeat.
The burning fades, an emptiness lingering in the air,
No longer thick with tea tree, just dull and flavourless.
My fingers are bare, my mind is in the present,
I am no longer sifting through age-old hallways and familiar faces.
My mouth is dry, the pomegranate gone,
Replaced my the bitter taste of stale memories.
