Silver Basin

Your words dry on my skin
like lead paint.

They settle slowly into my bloodstream.

I sleep inside their bruised colour
every night.

I tried the traditional ways
to remove your trace-
sanding and scraping,
and bleaching my skin.

I tried washing over you,
but watercolours don’t cover well,
and blue kept bleeding through.

I even tried smoking you out
with turpentine,
but it only made your dust
settle more intimately.

Still, I watch colour separate
inside the moon’s silver basin,
every night.

I’ve learned to breathe
within its fading tides,
and not wish to wash you
out of me completely.