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The uneaten apple in my sweaty palms and the lamp I just broke, remind me of the time I was happy to buy them. My ceiling has a door to nowhere and I watch, blindfolded, my hands untied, my tongue on loose, my mind: a rusted studio, stare at the unfinished painting inside me. It was a horrid picture and she will come again and I will let her.
I loathe the person I become when I'm angry but she hates the world so perfectly, she almost fits my ribs.
