Fugue

I am sewing a white heart,
patching limpid plaid on futile denim.
Sullied with bleach, I wash away the father, the son,
with soap and water and aseptic latex gloves, my holy spirit.
Thread the needle now and watch
the colors bleed to one.

Though this action is purposeless, I find
satisfaction in undoing all that you did. We tore apart
yellow wallpaper like my itty-bitty baby blanket,
and with walls stained cobalt, we forgot
that it would all dull anyways. I am
apprehensive of your appetite for artistry, dear
sister, get down on your knees
and beg for my forgiveness like this
is your prayer of deliverance. 

I want to sew you together again, but you will just unravel
like our long thread of worries, you punch my mind
into vagrant submission, I still have my heart, but barely.
Transparent mirrors chisel through your opaque bones
and make you turn me to gray, let me
cut into your brain and stitch up the wound.
If there was another answer, we would have found it years ago.

This is a type of paramnesia in which one
is too reckless to see oblivion. The cycle is a vicious
corner of emptiness, and I see your new color, blood red,
as a needle piercing my expedited soul.
I can’t help but bleach it all
and color it new, bleach
it all, and color
it new.