I grab a knife
with my weak little fingers
butter up
that 9-year old bread

with no certain motive
to swallow
I sit at the lunch table
wishing I’d wept

hide between see-through mirrors
to me they’re the ideal refuge
sacrificing my bones for tomorrow
in hopes they’ll never find truth

a decade has passed
still hadn’t dared to air out my house
but you punched in the windows
broke down the front door
the rotten blood spilling
out on the front porch

I stand vulnerably naked
without walls my house is a stage
and I suddenly realize, I am the artist
painting with colors my beautiful pain

I pick up the butter
and that 20-year old bread
my bones supporting my body
once and again

I fill up with lights
my wonderful home
with no blinding darkness
shame shall not play the main role