She looked at me with this stare so blank
That I feel her eyes cower
As if my shadow was growing exponentially larger
Filling up the whole-fucking-room.
And it is true, and it is the most honest expression I have:
“I don’t love you.”
When they do that good-cop bad-cop shit to me in jail
The detective’s shoulders bulged like he was wearing a dachshund under his shirt
“How would you describe your art?”
And interestingly, I thought of you
As you threw my canvas across the house
it hit the ground like a dilapidated animal
screamed that what I so-called art could get the fuck out of your house all the same.
But then showed up to my opening wanting to discuss my work
like you gave a shit
because the image of being supporting holds more validity
I learned not to cry
reinforced with your incrementally increasing violence
with your belief that abuse is only physical
like the shotgun shells grandma emptied on your twin
who, to this day
thinks that he is a worthless slob
and remains married to that fat creature
that no society would ever call ‘woman’
as I stand in the white walls of gallery after gallery
as curators lift an eyebrow
set down a glass
roll their eyes in disbelief at those two words
To which I imagine myself abruptly slapping them so hard in the face that they collapse in a heap.
Do you think that any curator, anywhere
Who has been waiting for our appointment all day
would prop themself up
And laugh as hysterically as I did?