Learning to Juggle

Heavy in my hands like hearts,
the balls are ripe and lovingly sewn.
Count the rhythms aloud,
twist into unusual shapes.
Gravity balances on my shoulders,
tosses back the balls while I wait
for their sandy pop in my palms.
I get lighter by the day.
Little comets kiss my forehead
and feet. I should wear sequins,
sing more.
I am pink with blunder.
I used to dim myself for others —
I feel that I am growing feathers.

Seconds

I bought a blueberry muffin with a crunchy top,
ate it right there outside the café.
Bit by bit I tore away the head,
revealing the bleeding secrets of its insides
and popping each melting segment between my teeth
like Sunday wrapped around my tongue.
My hands were oily the rest of the day.
In the slow dark where we hold each other
you are sweetness, soft,
kissing well-whisked batter from the corners of my mouth.
You crumble yourself into my ears and I smile to hear it.
Your skin is freshly baked.
I brush icing sugar from the ridges of your back.
Draw my finger up. Lick it clean.

Rachel studied English Literature at University of Warwick and has been writing since she was young. She uses her poetry to explore human connection and the power of small moments. Her work has appeared in or is upcoming in The Telegraph, Mslexia, Eye Flash Poetry, The Daily Drunk, Atrium, Lucent Dreaming and Fragmented Voices, among others. When she’s not writing she’ll most likely be climbing or juggling. You can find Rachel on Twitter at @still_emo.