And Their Colour

I see how he boils
I see his skin blistered and peeling
at the surface, and
I see what lies beneath.

I couldn’t help it, his voice started out whimsy and soon turned grey.
I searched for colour, for exposure, for sound;
in every wrinkle,
in every scar I searched, but they grew dull
and duller, still.

There is only one way at a time like this,
for me, just one way.
I carved a switch, long and thin,
kissed it from tip to tip,
dipped it in ferocious honesty
and laid it upon him.

Every sharp went unacknowledged, ignorance shaded
his wounds, so I left them.
He came back for another round and
I smacked him with truth,
defiance and with truth,
and he did not believe me.
So, I left.

Then, he came back and I swat him again.
I welted and blistered his skin, this
time colour arose.
Red infection swelled at the lacerated sites,
and he boiled.
I listened to his blood and his voice boil,
and his skin gash and then blister,
but before all this
I saw what hid beneath.

Now, I stand in front of my mirror,
where he thinks my reflection is
hollow and bare,
and I see all of my wrinkles and scars
and where they came from
and that they will always be

but with their colour,
and their colour,
and their colour!

You Are Leaving.

Picture frames decorate the carpet, broken glass
laying on top of smiling people.
The words hurled from you at a speed I couldn’t recognize
and blew the memories off of their chosen spots in
our home.
Around me, lay the shattered moments that I
treasure. I can barely catch my breath.
Time has froze, I’m useless.

I sit myself down in the middle of the debris,
the pain is flowing from me as if I became the Falls of Niagara.
I barely notice the glass cutting into my knees – feeding
me full of the poision, leaving me with scarred memories of
this moment that will never hang on a wall.

Moments – that feel like years – later, you are sitting
next to me in a truck. You are driving, we laugh, we stop,
we hug, we kiss. I feel my eyes flicker once again.

Then, I am home again. Hanging portraits on the wall. Careful
about their arrangement, they must be just so! I hear a doorknob turn
behind me so I turn to greet you with my love, but
time freezes with the coldness in your eyes and you tell me, once again,
you’re leaving.

I Will Not Be Fictional

I am skin,
bones, and
two toned cheeks.
I reek of issues, baggage and
distance.

Walk a mile –
can’t find me.¬† No mile
could. “While
you are looking, could you
grab me a latte? Double shots?
Thanks!”

I found
a story, a long time ago. It carried on and on and on. Redundant. It nearly drove me insane! Then, one day, the story changed! I think I was in shock. So, I walked miles and miles away.
The story couldn’t find me and I didn’t want it to. I have no use for stories; real or imagined!!

A boy came along and he
started writing, sketching words and illustrations in a binder.
He had longing in his eyes as he
sat under a hot, burning lamp. But, the
poor fool kept on writing.

He told me what he imagined
and hoped he could create.
Well…I listened and I smiled and
approved of his story. But he had the damn characters all wrong!!

I told him of my loathe for stories and how I may
regurgetate my lunch if he tried to write me in it.
He sulked, momentarily, but he went on his way. I suppose he writes in a new character
to take my place.
All the better for me.

I am skin,
bones, and it might be because of all the stories
that make me regurgetate my lunch.