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Impressionist Mural

Impressionist Mural

A Poem by Foxemerald

I’m alone. I’m alone again, at midnight.
He is beside me, but doesn’t say a word to me, until the
Nasty phrase no woman ever wants to hear. I’m not in the mood today hun, let’s
do this tomorrow night.’ After that, he puts that barrier between the sheets, and with that he rolls
away from me that night. I try and argue back, but he says
‘It’s normal babe, normal not to get
A rise.’ So I pinch myself and try to talk myself
Back down from it. I tell myself it is all just
In my head. I try and give myself the
Physical touch I need, to feel that I’m alive, and whole again. It doesn’t work, and I feel nothing but
regret. When I am done, I hear the snores adrift
And look down, to see the rumbling of his naked chest. I relished it oh! -how I relished the soft
White skin on his manly chest! I loved running my fingers up and down, the trickle of hair on it, that measured line going into
his navel. And everything from there . . . the sweet spot. Oh, that sweet spot! What I looked forward to at the end of the
uselessly boring charade of life. Those secrets I discovered in
the final ecstasy, they made me greedy,
the passion that rode a horse
To Mercury, with me on its back, no less! Now we are on Venus, though, and it is
MY planet. Mine is lit by
Flaming torches circling the orb.
‘Tomorrow’s gonna be another day,’ he said, so I just need to
survive the next
twenty four seven train wreck again. My heart sinks, but, I am not allowed to
Tell him that. It’s like an all day movie that I paid to go
See, which turns out to be a major letdown, and they
won’t let you leave the seat, once you’re inside.
Long, pointless work and endless notes, that provide me no
Pleasure, or balm for a dying
Soul, during which I distract myself with growing fantasies, and
expectations for the night ahead. This will all be over, at some point soon. I relish the idea of being
Alone with my partner, later on that night, when I will finally get a
Bite, out of the forbidden tree. No big deal,’ he tells me. Empty, yawning stretch of time, that resembles
A big wide glory-hole in the galaxy (without a pun). I was looking forward to that
Piece of Satan’s fruit, oh!- To invigorate, and remind me of the
motivation for my efforts. That sweet spot I imagine, in the face
Of endless nothing. The empty cavas I have yet
To press my brush against. It mocks me when I
look at it too long, filling me with
Bitter angst. Nothing to see, and no one to
hold me, or soak my tears into the
Hem of the t-shirt they don’t mind using because they
Love me silly. No one to talk to, during the long,
pointless hours I spend at my desk. I discipline myself and wait it out. Something good will happen soon. Need to stay motivated . . . for, you know, no one ever wants
to listen to your whine. Because that’s what it is. Plain immature whining. Grit your teeth and bear it’ they say, before moving on, to their own
Pressing list of things. Their impressive list. I feel like I am just an
Player in the little league. ‘Your life is great!’ You’ve got it, champ,’ is what I hear them tell me.
‘Stop being childish, stop your whining, STOP playing games, STOP it just- stop!’ So many, many bits of useful advice and yet,
I can’t help but feel as though I am
Simply a lost mural, hanging somewhere on a dusty wall
for people to look and gape at. A wall at one of the Pittsburgh art galleries, perhaps. An abstract piece of beauty, a masterpiece- but why? They say- with chaotic color, that do not seem
to have any sense or logic about them. They call it Impressionism, I suppose. Well, truth be told, maybe that is indeed
what I am. Just an abstract painting, an absurd image, made up of
a range of chaotic impressions and personalities . . .
Right? . . .

Em ~

© 2022 Foxemerald

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Added on July 26, 2022
Last Updated on July 26, 2022
Tags: Prose poetry




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