It Stayed

I stood in front of this painting and my heart was beating crooked.
Not fear.
A kind of restless tension without a target.
Like something knocking from the inside saying, come on already.

The trash can jumped into my eyes.
I didn’t choose it.
It was just there,
like a shitty thought that won’t leave
even when you try to be normal.

I put in fire and told myself,
enough.
That’s it.
And at that moment my hand made another move,
like it was telling me,
shut up.

The paint behaved like a bastard.
It wouldn’t go where I wanted.
It smeared,
ran,
twisted,
and every time I tried to fix it
it got worse.
And it pissed me off in exactly the right measure.

The smoke got tangled,
didn’t rise,
stuck halfway,
like a thought that can’t move forward
and just sits on your chest.

I looked at it and thought,
what a messed-up painting
but I couldn’t stop.

I stood too close.
The heat went up.
Or maybe I did.
Hard to know when you’re inside it.

When I left
I didn’t feel relief,
just a crooked quiet,
like after a fight with no decision.

I went out,
came back,
checked it was still there,
that this damn thing hadn’t disappeared on me.

It stayed.
And somehow,
so did I.