(no subject)
Though I was young and incurably naive
looking back I can clearly see
that while we stood in the kitchen
and I asked if I could change my name to “Peaches”
I was your relief.
He was horrible graffiti thrown on walls the sun never touches
a memory only someone else can
(not even fully) erase
because the buff marks are painful reminders
You were painfully thin and I was weightless then
when, the glossy white linoleum floor was
spotted with soft dimples.
His darker, fuller mustache sat atop the mouth
that screamed marital blasphemy
if there’s such a thing
as he backed you into corners
where the cabinets were sharp cornered
but smoothed
by varnish
by thick glaze.
Where I sat next to the trash
my young and struggling limbs
my mouth begging to change my name
Eating dinner at the table where
the chairs leave me with an ugly imprint
of the coarse blue fabric
and puffy, reddened skin.
and the glass sliding door that the sun
shone through, into the dining room
and kitchen.
I think that ugly imprint
and reddened skin has, and always will
stay with my knees,
because
the common theme, for me, at least
seems as though it will always be
stilled and sloshed anxiety.
At the age of slightly more than three
I just couldn’t see
why you wouldn’t let me change my name to “Peaches”
because mom I’d have promised you
I’d still be your relief.
looking back I can clearly see
that while we stood in the kitchen
and I asked if I could change my name to “Peaches”
I was your relief.
He was horrible graffiti thrown on walls the sun never touches
a memory only someone else can
(not even fully) erase
because the buff marks are painful reminders
You were painfully thin and I was weightless then
when, the glossy white linoleum floor was
spotted with soft dimples.
His darker, fuller mustache sat atop the mouth
that screamed marital blasphemy
if there’s such a thing
as he backed you into corners
where the cabinets were sharp cornered
but smoothed
by varnish
by thick glaze.
Where I sat next to the trash
my young and struggling limbs
my mouth begging to change my name
Eating dinner at the table where
the chairs leave me with an ugly imprint
of the coarse blue fabric
and puffy, reddened skin.
and the glass sliding door that the sun
shone through, into the dining room
and kitchen.
I think that ugly imprint
and reddened skin has, and always will
stay with my knees,
because
the common theme, for me, at least
seems as though it will always be
stilled and sloshed anxiety.
At the age of slightly more than three
I just couldn’t see
why you wouldn’t let me change my name to “Peaches”
because mom I’d have promised you
I’d still be your relief.