You wrote me from a book of disorder.
You stole an identity
painted my name with a tattered brush
long, old, and worn.
Paint thrown thick and black
onto walls, onto paper,
onto stone, brick, and a cold house
yellow wallpaper no longer kind, gentle
the place that you longed for
torn, ripped, decayed and unloved.
The paint drips onto your shoes
as you remember where the first cracks appeared.
But you don't remember how.
Or what.
Except, the hate you have of me.
Grown, kept, nourished
by desperation.
That poison
My dear, it is called addiction.
My dear, it is called addiction.
You cannot resist to taste and paste
my name like lyrics to explain your hate.
To everything purple and green, yellow and red,
you compare me to everything you love and dread.
For all to see and share and learn
the evil you see
the satisfaction you feed
desperate
to help support your sadness as it burns.
Hungry child weeps.
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