Woke up this morning,
Saw something on the walls.
Paint, just paint,
Just chipping, jarring paint.
I tried to fix I by scratching it,
Scratching it off with those long nails of mine.
But the more that I fixed it the more it looked broken
And ugly, imperfect, and
Scaring.

I tried to leave the room
To forget about it;
Come back to it
Another time, another day.
It is not worth worrying about,
But what is these days?

There isn’t anything prettier
Beneath the chipping paint.
I have to remind myself that, but slowly
Logic is slipping away.
I’m developing pica now, want to tear that paint
From the walls with my teeth so that I can taste
My sweet revenge,
But paint is rather bitter
Anyway.

So I stare in silence;
I could close the door, but I want all to see this.
This monstrosity, exhausting me of all my resources.
I call a few friends to present themselves to face the
Wall
So that they can stare at what I see
All. Day. Long.
Chipping paint that only worsens
Yet stubborn as a weight too strong
For me to lift.

Eventually, they return to me.
They must, right, they call themselves my friends.
I muster the courage to lead them through the door
To the walls that distract me, that ongoing chore.
One by one, they do view it and ask me where to look.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I say, “Isn’t it obvious?”
Again, they feel stupid, and blush, and pretend to see,
But they do not see.
I try to point it out,
But they do not see.
They will never see.
The chipping paint that forever plagues,
Forever, ever plagues
Me.