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
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