written august 2018
revised may 2020
dedicated to aunt sue
there are no flowers clinging to the kitchen walls, that's shit and bugs.
we aren't blessed with the aroma of roses and lavender, it smells like something dead is here—and those pills have turned you into a zombie so i'm close to betting that it's your skin that's rotting.
and our basement is so murky and void that i can't frame any portraits down there without crying; my grad school paintings are hanging for inspiration but when i look at them and i just wish that i had left you when i had the chance.
i can't keep our room cleansed of anything you bring into it, i can't smoke out your anger with burning lily flowers and i can't wash your beer out of the carpet with my sister's favorite orange and ginger scented soap.
if our house is fine, then why are you never there? if all those crystals will cure me then why am i still fucking crying?
