An old painting haunts me daily.
I thought it washed off with the flood.
Yet I always find it hanging there,
brightly painted with my blood.
I tried to hide it in the basement,
where it grew damp and cold.
I placed it far back in the attic,
it was too scarred and old.
I tried ripping up the canvas,
then saw my lacerated skin.
This mangled picture keeps on calling
as I tear the flesh that it lives in.
I want to vomit when I see it
and this mirror doesn't help.
As I slash apart what was me
so I won’t have to see myself.