Butane Fingers
There is burnt wood in this house,
building up the walls, charcoal and brown
There are damp spots on the carpet,
struggling to dry as the time passes-
filling this home with a mildew scent.
Your hands- they smell of butane
as you paint over the stripped and slivered
walls- Candy-chick yellow. Why Yellow? Why him?
Your smile is all shiny, with sweat.
Your eyes are pleading, mascara running
There are no contracts between a mother and daughter
so you didn’t breach it.
"There were no colours in your face,
so I didn’t bleach it."
There is a crackle in your honesty,
a small break in the promise,
A dusty speech that’s thick
with dead things.
Dead things- I am one
Burnt and brittle-boned, lying on the charred carpet.
You bring flowers in to cover-up the odor,
fuel seeps into my veins,
Building up to a great big crunch
I want to step on all your flowers.
Rupture all your olive branches.
But I will conclude in a smile,
wiping crisp flesh from my body
leaving raw and welted skin- red and wanting,
and help you paint the walls
Candy-chick Yellow.
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