Collected Poems: Vol. I

Black Currants

Gone blank. Water currants ripple on walls. Black mold crawls on the bathroom floor. Right in between the floorboards and the wall cap.
Hands and knees, knees and toes curl up while bent over. Etched into brain cells is the smell of vinegar and windex, in hopes to kill all the decay that had built up over the years. Like clearing out the closet of my metaphorical existence.
I wish I could clean it all out with just a spritz of cleaner. To be able to remove the dust and be restored to a near perfect state. Repaint my insides and sell myself at a higher value.
Black currants and all, scrubbed myself raw of all feeling to be normal. Eyes and ears, ears and nose turned up to sneer at it. My anger is windex and the vinegar is just that—a bitter fragrance to compliment my own resentment.