it’s 4:24 p.m. on a Sunday

If you know love, then you know hammers.

You know you’re the wall the nail is being pounded on.

You also know you’re the nail, and the strike.

You are all parts simultaneously.

The face you make when you paint is the same face you make

when you’re on top of me.

Your eyes are always everywhere.

I feel them on me always. They trace the parts of me I hate. They remind me that I am scenery for you to rest on. You relax into me and I feed you my forest.

I was built robust because one must have heavy machinery when enduring the life I was handed. Not that I needed to be robust, that was just my plan.

How I was painted.

YOU paint me.

And paint me and paint me.

I am on your mind as you are in mine. I live there regardless of who else shuffles through it. I will remember that when the black dogs come to visit.

 

 

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