I'm walking through a gallery of Van Gogh and Rembrand,
I see oil on canvas, and all I'm reminded of
is my insignificance, like the olive oil at my kitchen counter.
I hear the oil splatter,
I hear the voices inside of my head,
I hear how not starving myself is a struggle,
but so is not stuffing myself with slick silicone
to keep my mouth shut,
to fatten the heart like a goose,
to protect my ribcage like a jail.
Because my mouth wasn't made for food of the gods;
my mouth was a replica of pandora's box;
all evil resided deep inside of my throat,
embedded like bad cells against its walls,
a virus I swallowed to keep myself
But everything fell apart,
so I stare at the love of my life with blankness,
as if his glance should rub firewood against my skin,
make me ignite again, make me a phoenix.
But we all know that Icarus fell 'cause of the sun's fire,
so what makes me think that I will rise from my ashes
and not fall down on my knees again?
What makes me think that my efforts will not turn into a myth,
that healing was nothing but a figment of my imagination?
After all, they say it's all between my ears,
but so are my brains and eyes and all I see
is this oil.
This oil that rubs its face against my sweater,
not letting me go.
This oil that stains his white t-shirt,
the one that collects his perfume when he sleeps,
the one I'd tug at when I first learnt to speak.
All my life, I've felt nothing but dirty.
So I walk through the gallery,
and sink my feet into the carpet
like melted wax.
My mouth is a fixed stamp,
sealed by his warmth.
After all, is there any better way to forget the fire
than to burn with it?