Eat The Wall
Paint chips taste like pudding and souse at 9pm
when answers of "where have you been"
are not sufficient.
Thoughts travel to birth certificate to passport, to license as wondering if
"Bitch" is really your first name,
because you in fact feel nameless.
The taste of blood in mouth is now as smooth as that 1920
Lips learn the linguistics of sheetrock and choose to speak the language of hate,
while kissing it in French.
Mind starts to believe there's intimacy in the drywall's touch on cheek, and it,
cares more than he.
He who said loathing, lying I do's.
He whose fingernails carry enough DNA evidence to be the spokesman of
you convince yourself is your fault.
As forced into a same sex experience for his visual pleasure,
the paneling of your mind echoes his voice,
"Eat the wall. The wall. Wall. Eat it."
What people mistake as plaque,
is behr semi-gloss enamel.
Chipped tooth from light switch fixture.
Light switch fixture cracked from forehead impact.
There's an indentation from your nose where the wedding picture used to be.
Shards of glass and fragments of the frame
hide in the creases of the floorboards
where you stand,
a fraction of what you once were.
Decimal points reflecting the periods Daddy left on Mommy and how the past
mapped your present.
Fist print tattooed torso. You're an author now. These bruises an ugly non-fiction of abuse,
a beautiful novella of survival. Splashes of him infects the canvas,
swatches of mental illness brushed off and underneath the rug in that Brooklyn apartment.
Your tears, his eternal art.
Roger Smith © 2015