A Watercolor Painting In the Rain

Mom you can’t touch me anymore Because at the end of the day People are not poetry, We cannot sing lies into coats anymore. We cannot imagine wool out of cardboard crayon boxes. Mom, Warmth is not warmth unless we let it be. But now you’ve dressed me, In a veneer of fluttering news articles Depicting my loneliness, I am still a child. Well I am supposed to be. I think. Mom People stopped being science experiments They stopped swallowing the songbirds that cracked open their rib cages. They stopped making jam in their eyelids. Mom. Everything is bruised Everything is bleeding Mom. No one can see through the stars. I think I’m blind. I think it doesn’t matter how we cover our cheeks You can still see our tears through it. Mom. My face is a watercolor painting in the rain, popsicles left out in the sun , butter in a sauce pan Mom. I think I’m trying to find a million ways to tell you That I’m melting I’m crushing myself into the folds of my tongue Mom You can’t see me. But I’m crying mom I’m melting