Pygmalion
Purchase of pancake makeup
by the pound,
I slap it on my face
merely to hide one.
His handprint an indelible
tattoo, the fingertips point
to the highway of scars
that caress my face.
The dinner runs as cold
as the ice in his veins and
I am admonished for
the placement of peas
alongside the
carrots.
He's so loud, he's inaudible,
and the steak he throws
at me is like a stake in the heart.
But I vegetate over the
vegetables.
The clothes in the laundry
in more disarray
than this tumbling turmoil
that has become my life
with him.
He's hanging me out to dry,
a clothesline around my neck.
There is no rinse cycle
to wash me clean.
I'm shrinking.
I can no longer separate the
white from the color,
and I've bled on everything.
The telephone is disconnected
His words hit home,
and me.
I'm losing my lifeline while
I receive the receiver just below
my slack jaw.
I cannot reach out and
touch someone
while fighting for my freedom.
The operator tells me to
please, hang up.
It's a consideration of mine.
Can I borrow a dime?
The search for peace has ended
with cold stones for two.
His, the slab he walks upon and
mine, the one that rests
heavy upon my head...
the way it did when I was
able to breathe.
He always said I was lower
than dirt.
Finally, there is some truth.
Neither have any regrets, but
I have all the time
in the world.