the only thing worse than growing up
in a damaging household
is having to paint over it with
absent-minded memories of superficial joy.
to be unable to acknowledge the trauma
because then you’d look unappreciative.
so i paint over it
like i have painted my whole life
i paint a pale moon, its soft glow covering up
the sadness within mother.
i paint red roses in place of lost love
and purple mountains behind which
i hope to see a sun rise again.
reds are too bold
so i switch them for pink.
blues too sad so white will do.
i dare not touch the black.
life is a pretty picture
cover that dark spot!
i am privileged, i am privileged.
fix that scratch, don’t let it show!
layer upon layer
i have painted over the pain.
but the pain is thickening, cracking.
ready to peel off the wall.
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