watercolour

it was stuck in me

buried beneath layers of blood cells

and tissue.

I could not dig it out,

despite my best efforts

with silver tools

with sharp edges-

needles and such.

I've tried to flood

it out with whiskey and wine

but instead I became saturated

with addiction.

still, it fluttered within me

beating it's feathery tufts

washing away the sun

where it would burn so vigorously

the light would etiolate

my organs.

on certain mornings

when I woke

I'd already dreamt that I

had been filtered away in the night

leaving behind a

stain on the sheets,

the phone off the hook,

ink-soaked, slurry love letters

and a blooming corsage

on my left breast.

then I'd have to do it all again.

negotiate my body

and sell my tongue.

by the end of the day

all I could stand to do

was collapse

and dream again

of being washed away,

like little broken bits of

watercolour palettes.

I have learned to let

it live in my brain.

sometimes it was quiet

and would only make sudden

flickering noises,

like a bulb burning out.

other times it

grew a voice as booming

as my father's.

now, in this moment

it is just dead water

plugging my ears

gently carrying my pulse

up and around my head

reminding me that I'm still here.