I’d paint my walls with it.
Some days they’d look like flowers
blooming beneath Winter skies
when the snow’s stopped falling
for a little while to let us breathe.
Other days, they’d be paint water
spilt on the floor and we’d lie arms
outstretched over them, staring at
the ceiling, soaking up our mess.
We’d make snow angels.
Then there are days when I could
stand so still, back pressed closely,
so hard on the wall and you wouldn’t
even see me. You’d pass by like the
breeze and I’d be the music sheets
fluttering quietly to the floor.
Your violin won’t be able to mask
the sound your fists make when
they collide with my ribs forever,