oleander

there are reminders, coming in daily now,
that this canvas is covered in vomit
because you inhaled too many paint fumes and passed out
and your body tried to detoxify itself

"are you married?"
the standard question you ask a woman covering
her shoulders
her back, her clavicles,
her breasts
with a shawl

categorize me because you have no other way of understanding me
because you loved your own kids too much and they
were not selfish shits like me who lie
like corpses fantasizing about dying alone
in a warehouse of paint and infinite palettes
replete with a cruel twilight zone twist of blindness
and this is why I vomit on the fucking canvas
these sunglasses hide what I can't do with these pentacles
the universe placed around me

"I wouldn't give you a second look," he said to my veiled form

it was the right answer
but it was not the truth