Under the bed of chains where you strapped me in my tattered red pajamas I wail at the sunHowling at the loss of the moon who sang me lullabies before the nightmares. You walkedafloat the floor in flipflops, I stayquietly
From a distance, the rain tiptoed as if I wouldn’t hear it gurgling with the thick hem of its robe, scraping the heaven’s floor “If I knocked, you wouldn’t open the door,” it said by my window, pouring its morning
Don’t put that brush down, darling. It’s beautiful. It’s odd. It’s irregular, just like you and the pigment of your skin, the warts on your arms like little gems you wanted to pick and pull away but an Artist put
