Her painting is gone

A poem-y thing about what she left behind.

I take the picture she made off the wall.

It's stubborn. It doesn't want to go. But I can't safely sleep and close my eyes while hers look at me. I place it face down somewhere else.

The hook and hole are left behind in the wall.

I want to take all the punctures she made and fill them with spackle. I want to remove every screw and blademark she left in me and make those places strong and smooth again and paint over any evidence she was ever here.

But sometimes I find another painting.

Another place where she stabbed and wrenched open another hole and hung her own work over the top. "I heard the pain in your voice," she would cry. "Let me help you!"

That's the trouble with paintings. They look out at the world showing everyone how beautiful they are, and isn't the wall so much nicer with them on it?

Not once do they turn around and realise
The damage they did
To support their frame.

I take down all the paintings I find.
I'm still trying to find the spackle.