You’re inside again, the shades drawn tight,
lights low, staring at the different darks
and wondering if you moved the furniture
in here would anything really change
besides the feng shui and the unbarked skin
of your naked shins.
What? No! Fuck blue. You’re not a color.
You’re the anti-color, not black,
just blank, a clear nothing that
respires shadow because today
hurts in its light, its bright,
and its obsequious pastel softness.
You crack the shade for a peek,
and realize your mistake, eyes swelling shut
with the burning thought of being caught.
You’re okay with your selfish sequester
because no one cares to see you like this
and you don’t care if you see them, either.
You’re not sad. What is sad?
Happy then? Please! You dipped your brush
into nothing again, smearing its impasto
of those feelings of no feeling that
you haven’t not-felt in so long,
ambivalent of their dark ambivalence.
The caress of its serial killer fingers
glide upon your skin, seductive, safe,
soft, smooth in their smothering.
They trace the letters
on the misted windows inside
your drawn-tight eyelids…WELCOME HOME.