finger-picking

I’ve made a lot of clumsy things. 

My shelves and counters are lined with broken and deformed pottery, patted together, crumpled up ink stained pieces of paper, drips of brown paint.

Not brown at first just turned ugly when mixed with all the other things. 

I paint myself and all the walls. I bake dry cakes that break my teeth, their pieces join the fray of all these shards and forsaken art.

And what exactly are you looking at, friend.  

I want answers to the questions that burn me in the bathtub, the ones that watched you leave out the window, the ones that knocked holes in the walls and broke the microwave.

WHAT?

not necessarily why, who knows, who cares.

 

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