Coat of paint

By Roshni Riar, Staff Writer


My landlord won’t mind

what she doesn’t know,

like when I hang out

the second-floor window

to blow smoke up towards

the moon. Like when I lean

too hard against the mirror,

challenging each and every

single pore to a standoff

and I hear a crack somewhere

behind my reflection and

the picture dips ever so slightly.

Like when I don’t know what

to do, how to belong, how to

exist in a space that I know isn’t

my own, even when I desperately

want to find something to call

my own. Like when I wake up

crying at six am because I’m so

overwhelmed by the things

that just keep piling and piling

and piling and piling

and piling

so, I walk to Rona and buy a can

of paint. Like when I paint

the bathroom green and the living

room purple, kitchen yellow

and the bedroom black. Just to forget.

My landlord, she doesn’t need to know

because I don’t want her to remind

me of what I’m trying to cover up

with two coats of Behr pearl finish.