here is the new poem.
reworked and better.


crying over spilt milk


at 20 my skin was smooth and tempting
sweet cream poured in a saucer
waiting to be lapped by a pink tongue

but now faded lines like the memories of
lightning strikes or the prick of sharp claws
trace regrets across my flesh.

the saucer overturned and chipped
the cream long since curdled.