Paint

Pot and brush sit
In the corner of a
Room in textile snow
Phantoms hide amongst the space
The dawn of childhood’s burial

She pulls it from
The paint tin, colour dribbling
From bristles and tones
Of past walls and shadows
Their stoical stand in silence

Beneath all other layers
A pattern of yellow and white
Still pure and glowing
Bright wondering eyes
Tight fists and quick feet

A treasured princess costume
Each stitch held the secrets of life
Pink beamed from every inch
A castle of distant dreams
Broken china buried a kitchen floor

Graceful galloping through fields
Made her room shine
Emerald she’d stare at while
Bedtime stories slurred
Strong breath distilled

Rebellion day’s dawn burned
Violet bled down all four
Covered the bruises and scabs
Self-lessons of towels, hormones
Of pills and condoms

Stale stench of vomit
Chalk smears on the blackboard
Blood wept through the lace
Vodka and gin stained glass
A force fed terminal cocktail

The glimpse of a splatter
Exposes it all to her
Deep cardinal slides and spills
To shield the paper, the fabric
Fills the cracks, the breaks

It is all that holds together
The screen she wears everyday
Until it is broken
She will always paint